
Class 



10 



GoR,TightN° 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSre 



BARRETT H. CLARK 



THE 
CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY 
Outlines for Its Study By Barrett H. Clark 

Suggestions, questions, biographies, and bibliogra- 
phies with outlines, of half a dozen pages or less 
each, of the more important plays of Ibsen, Bjorn- 
sen, Strindberg. Tolstoy, Gorky, Tchekoff, An- 
dreyefif, Hauptmann, Sudermann, Wedekind, Schnitz- 
ler. Von Hoffmansthal, Becque, Le Maitre, Lavedan, 
Donnay, Maeterlinck, Rostand, Hervieu, Giacosa, 
D'Annunzio, Echegaray, and Galdos, While in- 
tended to be used in connection with a reading of 
the plays themselves, the book has an independent 
interest. 12 mo. $1.50 net. 
(Published by Henry Holt and Company, New York) 

"Three Modern Plays from the French," 

THE PRINCE D'AUREC, THE PARDON, 
THE OTHER DANGER 

Translated by Barrett H. Clark, with an introduc- 
tion by Clayton Hamilton. 12 mo. Net $1.35. 
(Published by Henry Holt and Company, New York) 

THE LABYRINTH 

A play in five acts, by Paul Hervieu. Authorized 
translation by Barrett H. Clark and Lander Mac- 
Clintock. 16 mo. Net $1.00. 

(Published by B. W. Huebsch, New York) 



FOUR PLAYS OF THE 
FREE THEATER 

The Fossils By Francois de Curel 

The Serenade By Jean Jullien 

Francoise* Luck By Georges de Porto^Riche 

The Dupe By Georges Ancey j^^^±^J_ 

PRODUCED AT THE THEATRE LIBRE 



Translated with an Introduction 
BY 

BARRETT H. CLARK 

Preface by Brieux of the French Academy 




CINCINNATI 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 

1915 



a" 



^^%4^^ 



Copyright, 191 4, by 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 

All Rights Reserved 

Copyright in England 

First impression November, 1914 



#/^i 



VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY 
BIN6HAMTON AND NEW YORK 



DEC -7 1914 

i)CI.A387836 



3v 

^ CONTENTS 

'^ PAGE 

V Preface Brieux v 

/5 Antoine and the " Free 

Theater " ... Barrett H. Clark . . xi 

The Fossils, a play In 

four acts .... Frangois de Curel . . 5 

The Serenade, a Bour- 
geois study in three acts Jean Jullien ... 85 

Francoise' Luck, a com- 
edy in one act . . . Georges de Porto-Riche 149 

The Dupe, a comedy In 

five acts .... Georges Ancey . . .187 



PREFACE 

Mr. Barrett H. Clark, 

Berlin, 
My Dear Colleague: 

The Nineteenth Centupy was an age which 
strove in the pursuit of truth; during the last 
twenty years that struggle became strikingly man- 
ifest, for the theater itself was affected. 

After the stupidities of Romanticism — with 
its moonlit fortresses and factitious medievalism, 
its poniards and poison-vials, its caverns and 
towers, its chatelaines and sorcerers, its murders 
and idle gossip, men began to feel the need of a 
closer observation of the life about them. After 
a period of narrow philosophic spirituality, there 
arose the desire to examine with a critical eye that 
which in the past had been accepted as a matter of 
course. Science, which was the heritage of the 
Nineteenth Century, rapidly became " experi- 
mental." 

As the French temperament was fertile ground 
for the new ideas, beautiful plants and flowers 
and great trees sprang up with a vigor which 
seemed wholly spontaneous. 

In the realm of philosophy it was Taine, in 
medicine Claude Bernard, in science all the Posi- 
tivists, who paved the way for the new literature. 
Balzac was the first. His work marks the tran- 
sition between Romanticism and Naturalism. 



PREFACE 



In him are the defects of exaggeration of both 
schools. Certain conceptions and Ideas of his are 
at times childishly, monstrously distorted, suffi- 
ciently so to rank him with the worst of his prede- 
cessors, while at other times again he thinks and 
writes with a power so violent and so audacious, 
that none of his disciples has been able to equal 
him — in spite of the fact that every follower is 
prone to exaggerate the manner of his master. 
Zola was to follow, however. 

The theater — If we except certain plays of 
that true precursor of the moderns, Emile Augier, 
and the occasionally inspired priests of Dumas 
fils — was confined rigidly within certain time- 
honored conventions, and lay like a lazybones in 
a warm and comfortable bed. The theaters of 
Paris all had their accepted and privileged pur- 
veyors of amusement, and their intellectual sloth 
was in turn communicated to the public — each 
supporting the other. 

Yet a deep-buried desire for something new ex- 
isted somewhere in the mind of the public; it was 
latent, unknown, unconscious — but It was so real, 
so sincere, that when the first attempts to bring the 
theater into a closer relation with life were 
brought to the stage, these were greeted with cries 
of joy and enthusiasm. 

It is Antolne's chief glory to have felt this de- 
sire, to have been the first to bring It to Its full 
fruition. From the moment he made his appear- 
ance, in the obscure little theater in the Passage 
de I'Elysee des Beaux-arts, dramatists brought 
him plays in which they too had endeavored to do 
away with the old conventions, and in which they 

vi 



PREFACE 

tried to affect the men and women of their day 
through sincere work reflecting more clearly than 
ever before the life of their time. All these 
authors existed, no doubt, but their works were not 
produced, their manuscripts were not even read, 
and it is not difficult to believe that many of them 
would have faltered and failed in the face of ever- 
lasting discouragement, had it not been for An- 
toine who, while not advertising them nor ex- 
ploiting them, merely " placed " them, made them 
feel that they existed, and helped them to realize 
their individuality. Without attempting to guide 
or directly influence them, his powerful personality 
made itself felt even with the strongest-willed 
and most independent of his co-workers. His un- 
ruffled good humor in the face of the protestations 
called down upon his head by the new-school 
dramatists, his faith in himself and in his work, 
his manner of accepting the most patent defeat as 
the most brilliant of victories, his admirable fight- 
ing spirit, his courage — all this, and other things 
besides — made of the little band which consti- 
tuted the original Theatre Libre, a living com- 
pany, an insolent band of enthusiasts even, an 
enemy of tinsel and false glory (and at times, it 
rnust be confessed, of true glory, for it was occa- 
sionally extreme in its attitude) but always ready 
for a struggle, valiant in the cause of truth, of 
beauty, of poverty, of independence : fanatical and 
brutal, too. In a word, it possessed those quali- 
ties which attract and hold the attention of the peo- 
ple at large. 

Antoine was fortunate as a revolutionary in that 
he was not in the least exclusive. By personal in- 

vli 




PREFACE 



cllnation and taste he believed in a realistic expres- 
sion of life, yet his enthusiasm for the " play of 
ideas " attracted him to Francois de Curel, and for 
the love and sex drama to Georges de Porto-Riche. 

I remember — with what a thrill ! — the many 
pleasant and inspiring evenings I have spent in the 
company of these enthusiasts. Pitiless like all 
neophytes, violent as well, each of us was a sort 
of Polyeucte, eager to smash the idols of the past. 

The influence of the Theatre Libre upon the 
development of the theater in France was enor- 
mous. Even those who opposed it most bitterly, 
tried later to imitate it, but as they lacked Faith, 
that divinely essential Faith, they succeeded in imi- 
tating only the technical methods: they were cap- 
able only of copying what was of least value and. 
in the apt words of Jules Lemaitre, the result 
was a " nouveau poncif " — " a re-hashing of stale 
material." 

Now Antoine — who would believe it? — An- 
toine is a timid man. You may take the word of 
one who has known him intimately for a quarter of 
a century. In the early days Antoine was seized 
with fear in the presence of an audience. Those 
thousand pairs of eyes, often enough full of mock- 
ery, at times distinctly hostile, were the source of 
much uneasiness to the young actor. I must add 
that at times there was imposed on him the difficult 
task of flinging in the teeth of that public expres- 
sions which were particularly daring and odious. 
Then, in order to escape the gaze of that multitude, 
he instinctively turned round one day, and contin- 
ued to speak his lines, his back turned to the foot- 
lights. That seemed to cap the climax. At the 

viii 



PREFACE 



Comedie Francaise, the temple of dramatic con- 
ventions, I know one Theatre Libre dramatist who 
was once very much irritated because the actors, 
wishing to please him, rehearsed with their backs 
turned continually to the audience ! 

Antoine's work produced more important and 
lasting results. He it was who for the first time 
introduced to the public a large number of drama- 
tists hitherto unknown, many of whom it is certain 
would otherwise never have had a hearing. He 
was the first to bring Ibsen to France, and Fran- 
gois de Curel into international renown. An- 
toine showed us greater and finer possibilities in 
staging, his mise en scene constituted a revolt 
against the old-fashioned stage-sets, many of which 
seemed an insult to the artistic sensibilities of the 
spectator. He reduced the number of stage con- 
ventions, he encouraged and successfully produced 
the works of new authors, and taught the general 
public to look for and appreciate dramatic work of 
better quahty and nobler inspiration than that to 
which it had as a rule been accustomed. 

It is not his fault if the public is but rarely of- 
fered an opportunity to develop that better taste 
which he did so much to improve, and which at 
times seems likely to disappear for want of suffi- 
cient nutriment! 

Brieux. 



IX 



SONNET A ANTOINE 

" Le theatre? " me disiez-vous au coin de I'atre; 
" Travail de fou dans la poussiere . . . Espoirs 

. . . Degout . . . 
Pauvrete des moyens . . . On crie, on rage, on 

bout . . . 
Ca n'y est pas! . . . C'est du carton et c'est du 
' platre!" 

Et puis, un souffle passe . . . et c'est un coin 
bleuatre 

Ou, pendant un instant, ca y est, tout d'un coup ! 

Et c'est ca, — cet instant qui console de tout, — 

" C'est ca," me disiez-vous, Antoine, " le thea- 
tre f" 

La Vie aussi, mon cher ami. Ce n'est que pour 
Deux ou trois beaux instants de victoire ou 

d'amour 
Que le Heros reprend sans fin sa tentative. 

Soit ! Vous la reprendrez demain, grand obstine ! 
Mais un de ces instants qui valent que Ton vive, 
Je crois bien que, ce soir, Paris vous I'a donne ! 

Edmond Rostand 



ANTOINE AND THE " FREE 
THEATER " 

The " Free Theater " was to the French drama 
of the past quarter century what the Reformation 
was to Christianity; Andre Antoine was its Martin 
Luther. Like Luther, this energetic Frenchman 
did not originate or invent his revolution, he merely 
happened to live at a time when revolt was in the 
air : both brought to a head a number of symiptoms 
and eventually formulated the ideas of their time 
and fixed for future generations those ideas which 
each had found and developed. To Antoine it 
appeared that the drama of his day was fettered 
with conventions of style, technic, and subject- 
matter to such an extent that young dramatists 
with new ideas and new ways of expressing them, 
had little or no opportunity to produce their 
works. The founding of his little troupe of ama- 
teurs was a declaration of independence from the 
" well-made " plays of Scribe and his followers. 
The experiment was so successful that within less 
than ten years it ceased to be of use, and died of 
inertia. The forces Antoine was combatting gave 
way before him, so that within less than twenty 
years he found that as director of the Odeon 
Theater — surely one of the most conventional of 
Parisian playhouses ! — he was able to mount what 
plays he pleased and In what manner seemed best 
to him. 

xi 



ANTOINE AND 



The nineteenth century was one of the most fer- 
tile periods in the history of the French stage. 
Beginning with the Romanticists — Victor Hugo, 
Dumas pere, Alfred de Vigny — contempor- 
aneous with the " Vaudevillistes," dominated by 
the commanding Scribe, there arose two of the 
most original and revolutionary of modern drama- 
tists: Alexandre Dumas fils and Emile Augier. 
They were the originators of the social " thesis " 
play. The individual in conflict with society and 
conventions was what interested these moralists; 
their influence was later to be observed in the 
works of Ibsen who, it will be seen, in turn con- 
tributed largely to the ideas of the younger writers 
of Antoine's movement. Yet the general trend of 
the nineteenth century was toward the presenta- 
tion of life molded into a more or less conven- 
tional form. The school of Scribe, in which Vic- 
torien Sardou was the greatest scholar, has fur- 
nished models of technic which have remained to 
this day. 

At rare intervals there arose a dramatist who 
endeavored to get a little closer to life, delve a lit- 
tle deeper into human motives and paint with a 
defter hand the manners of his day. Balzac, try- 
ing to carry into the realm of the theater some of 
that marvelous power of observation which is the 
chief glory of his masterpieces of fiction, wrote 
one play which was a forerunner of the Antoine 
movement: " Mercadet " is undeniably crude, yet 
its very crudity lends an air of actuality to it which 
is lacking even in some of the best plays of Dumas 
fils and Augier. Another novelist, later in the 

xii 



THE '' FREE THEATER " 



century, turned to the theater: Zola's " Therese 
Raquin " Is a tragedy of remorse, which was to 
exercise considerable Influence over the younger 
generation. At a time when the stage was domin- 
ated by conventions, Henry Becque had the good 
fortune to have his two masterpieces, " Les Cor- 
beaux " and " La Parlslenne " (" The Vultures " 
and "The Woman of Paris") produced; these 
uncompromising and occasionally brutal pictures, 
especially the former, constitute. In the words of 
James Huneker, the Bible of the Naturalist 
School of drama. With a profound contempt for 
formula and accepted tradition, for every trick of 
the trade, Becque wrote with no other Idea than to 
create living people, allowing them only so much 
of a plot as should be necessary to demonstrate 
their thoughts and consequent acts. For many 
years he unsuccessfully submitted his manuscripts 
to managers, but In the 'eighties his efforts brought 
forth fruit. Their Intrinsic, apart from historical 
value, is clearly seen In the fact that both plays 
continue to draw large audiences at the Comedie 
Francaise and the Odeon. 

Antolne Is a bourgeois, a bourgeois of the solid, 
forceful. Intelligent type of Brieux. With an al- 
most brutal and dogged air of strength, he gives 
the impression of one who — endowed with a 
vision — will move mountains and override his 
subordinates without appearing to notice the re- 
sult of his assiduity. Seated in his office at the 
Odeon one evening, I was at liberty to observe at 
close quarters his personal appearance. A tall 
man, with a marked stoop, his small blue eyes set 

xiii 




ANTOINE AND 



wide apart, his large cheeks resting upon a stiff 
high collar, he spoke with gruff geniality, and 
straight to the point. 

"The 'Theatre Libre,' mon Dieu! It seems 
like ancient history ! Well — here's all the ma- 
terial you want. I've kept the files — In there is 
a room full of letters ! I may publish them some 
day, but, vous savez? it's the devil of a job! 
Take what you like. 

" You asked me in your letter whether the 
choice of typical plays of the ' Theatre Libre ' you 
had made is a good one? Yes, Curel and An- 
cey and Jullien are representative, while Porto- 
Riche may serve to show something of the variety 
I attempted to make in our programs. Brieux, of 
course Brieux is ' Theatre Libre,' but I understand 
he is already known in your country." 

And briefly, but courteously, Antoine outlined 
his Work, in somewhat the following manner. 
The main facts I have gleaned from stray articles 
and historical compilations, but I have tried to 
enter into the spirit of the subject from Antoine's 
point of view, and make what reservations I am 
forced to when that spirit seems in direct opposi- 
tion to the truth. 

Andre Antoine was born in 1858 at Limoges. 
He was sent to school at Paris at an early age, but 
was forced to go to work in an office at the age of 
thirteen. In 1877 he became an employee of the 
Gas Company at Paris, wljere he remained, with 
the exception of the years spent in military service, 
until his resignation, ten years later, when he 
founded his little theater. Antoine was always 
deeply interested in theatrical matters; as a child 

xiv 



THE '' FREE THEATER " 



he attended classses in declamation and acting, 
and once aspired to enter the august Conserva- 
toire, but failed to pass the preliminary examina- 
tion. His vigorous natural acting, though lack- 
ing the polish necessary for entrance into the 
school of which he wished to become a member, 
never failed to impress the small audiences gath- 
ered together to witness the occasional amateur 
productions organized by the young enthusiast. 
From his little " Gymnase de la parole " he passed 
into the " Cercle Gaulois," another, slightly more 
ambitious, dramatic club. This club produced 
conventional plays, against which Antoine was 
soon to revolt. " Of what use " he said, " is it to 
give plays which can be seen anywhere?" 
Krauss, the director of the " Cercle," was unwill- 
ing to produce new works, so that Antoine was 
forced to secede and found what he called the 
" Theatre Libre " — or Free Theater. In the tiny 
improvised playhouse in the Rue de I'Elysee des 
Beaux-Arts, on the " Butte de Montmartre," on 
the evening of March 30, 1887, took place the 
first production of the new society. " Made- 
moiselle Pomme " by Duranty and Paul Alexis; 
" Un Prefet," by Arthur Byl; " Jacques Damour," 
by Leon Hennique after Zola; and " La Cocarde," 
by Jules Vidal — two comedies and two " dramas," 
each in one act — these constituted the opening 
spectacle. With the exception of " Jacques 
Damour," the performance was a failure. All 
the heartrending mishaps incident to amateur per- 
formances seemed destined to occur on that fatal 
night. Had it not been for the profound impres- 
sion created by the Hennique-Zola sketch, it Is 

XV 



ANTOINE AND 



doubtful whether the Free Theater would have 
continued. 

Antoine had spent all his salary, and something 
besides, to mount the first performance on March 
30, but he determined to tempt Providence once 
more, and on the next convenient payday, just two 
months later, he presented two more plays : " La 
Nuit Bergamesque," a verse comedy by the poet 
Emile Bergerat, and a one-act '' serious " play by 
Oscar Metenier, " En Famille." The first per- 
formance had attracted little attention, but that 
in May brought among others, Francisque Sarcey, 
Emile Zola, and Alphonse Daudet. " Contempo- 
rary dramatic art," says one enthusiastic historian, 
" was born that evening." But if that is a slight 
exaggeration, we may be assured that Antoine be- 
lieved that it had, for he resigned from his posi- 
tion with the Gas Company in order to devote his 
entire time and energy to the direction of his thea- 
ter. Sending out an appeal to many writers who 
thought they had original, unconventional plays, 
plays which no manager in Paris was willing to ac- 
cept at the time, he received a great many manu- 
scripts during the summer of 1887. That sum- 
mer was occupied with many cares : a new theater 
— the " Gaite Montparnasse " — had to be fitted 
up, subscriptions to a series of performances taken, 
and no end of minor matters attended to. It is 
recorded that Antoine carried his subscription 
blanks to the homes of those who might be inter- 
ested in the project, in order to save postage. 

By October, Antoine had secured only thirty-five 
subscriptions. In order to escape the vigilance of 
the censor, his performances were made private: 

xvi 



THE " FREE THEATER " 



individuals voluntarily subscribed and were " in- 
vited " to the theater. On October 12 was the 
first regular subscription performance of the Free 
Theater. " Soeur Philomene," a naturalistic play 
based upon the novel by the brothers de Goncourt, 
and '' L'Evasion," a play In one act by VlUIers de 
risle Adam, made up that program. A month 
later Antoine Introduced to his audience one of the 
typical Free Theater plays, " Esther Brandes," by 
Leon Hennlque. On December 23, the " Genre 
Theatre Libre " became permanently fixed in Jean 
Julllen's " La Serenade." 

By this time the Theater began to attract wide- 
spread attention, and before long it became a veri- 
table storm-center of literary schools and sects. 
The progressives and reactionaries took sides ag- 
gressively, and battles waged. The result was a 
happy one for Antoine and his theater. He 
thrived on abuse and adverse criticism. Sarcey, 
the exponent of the " well-made " play and despot 
of the theatrical world, shrieked aloud that the 
new pieces were simply not plays — by which he 
meant that they were not plays of the Scribe-Sar- 
dou school. Which they were not. 

Not content with introducing French plays 
alone, Antoine mounted Tolstoy's " The Power of 
Darkness" (February 10, 1888). This aroused 
a good deal of excitement.^ The production of 

1 Before this play was produced, Antoine received a number 
of letters from dramatists and critics. Among these were pro- 
tests from three masters of the stage of the day. Emile Augier 
says: "It is less a play than a novel in dialogue, the length of 
which would render it insupportable on our French stage." 
Dumas fils says : " From the point of view of our French stage, 
I do not think Tolstoy's play possible. It is too pessimistic; 

xvll 



ANTOINE AND 



this play was of incalculable benefit to the French 
stage : it demonstrated first that a so-called " un- 
dramatic " play could be made interesting and ef- 
fective on the stage, and it paved the way for the 
production of the masterpieces of foreign con- 
temporary drama in a country which is to this day 
only too ready to ignore foreign works on the 
ground that France still leads the world in the 
realm of the theater. 

Antoine's productions of Tolstoy, Ibsen, Strind- 
berg, and Bjornson, have done much for the edu- 
cation of the modern French critic and theater- 
goer, coming at a time when the country was so 
far behind contemporary European dramatic liter- 
ature. 

The first season's significant contributions were 
*' La Serenade," of which further mention will be 
made later, and " The Power of Darkness." Yet 
a word should be said of Gustave Guiches and 
Henry Lavedan, whose " quarts d'heure," — light 
fragmentary scenes, satirical commentaries on so- 
ciety — opened the way for these two dramatists, 
and constituted a veritable theatrical debut. 
Lavedan, later in " Le Nouveau jeu " and " Le 
Prince d'Aurec " did little more than enlarge upon 
his scenes and construct some sort of plot upon 
which they might be strung. Gustave Guiches, 
one of the most powerful of the less original 
dramatic writers of to-day, if he did not follow in 
the footsteps of his early collaborator, was at least 

there is not a single sympathetic character . . ." Sardou says: 
" It is cruelly beautiful and essentially true, but it is written to 
be read and not seen. In my opinion it is not playable. Every- 
thing that can be done to make it possible for the stage will re- 
sult only in spoiling it. . . ." 

xviii 



THE " FREE THEATER " 



encouraged to write plays, which have been seen 
on the best stages in Paris. 

The end of the first subscription year found An- 
toine poor in pocket, but correspondingly rich in 
experience ; the seven productions — In which sev- 
enteen plays figured — had exhausted his small 
capital, and again the Indefatigable producer faced 
a financial problem. Yet before the question be- 
came very serious he found that the number of 
subscribers had become so great that he had to find 
a larger theater in order to accommodate them. 
He then engaged the '' Theatre des Menus- 
Plalslrs," remodeled it, and started his second sea- 
son. By this time the little band of amateurs, 
under the dictatorial head of Antoine, had come to 
be recognized as a highly efficient company of 
original actors. The plays, owing to their sub- 
ject-matter and unconventional treatment of new 
themes, had attracted so much attention that even 
old and hardened theater-goers flocked to the 
Menus-Plalsirs, if only to scoff. 

Late in the year 1888 Georges de Porto-RIche, 
known previously to that time as the author of a 
few slight volumes of poems and four or five not 
very successful poetic dramas, saw his " Chance de 
Frangoise " produced by the Free Theater. The 
Immediate success of this delicate little comedy 
doubtless encouraged its author to write his great- 
est play, '' Amoureuse,'* which saw the stage not 
long after. Another important play of the second 
season was Leon Hennlque's noble historical trag- 
edy, '' La Mort du Due d'Enghien." Neither 
of these plays was what Is known as the " genre 

xix 



ANTOINE AND 



Theatre Libre " — as Jullien's " La Serenade " 
was — nor was Catulle Mendes' " La Reine Fiam- 
mette," which was in verse. These plays, to- 
gether with the Goncourts' " La Patrie en 
danger," serve further to illustrate that Antoine 
was not trying to destroy the old so much as to 
make way for the new, and at the same time, ac- 
cept so much of the old as was sincere and beauti- 
ful. However, Zola, with " Madeleine " con- 
tinued the tradition of the Naturalists. Georges 
Ancey, the author of " La Dupe," was trying his 
wings with a three-act comedy, *' Les Insepar- 
ables." 

The seasons from 1888 to 1893 inclusive 
marked the period of greatest activity and con- 
tributed the largest nurnber of good plays of the 
entire Antoine movement. About ninety plays 
were produced, most of them new French works, 
although Hauptmann, Ibsen, Turgenev, Bjornson, 
Strindberg, and Tolstoy were represented by some 
of their best works. 

The season of 1889-90 was one of the most 
fruitful and historically important of the series: 
Ibsen's " Ghosts," Brieux's " Menages d'artistes," 
and Jean Alcard's " Le Pere Lebonnard " were all 
seen for the first time in France. Brieux cer- 
tainly owes a great deal to Antoine. When he was 
editing a small newspaper in Rouen he sent the 
manuscript of his first play of distinct merit to the 
new theater. Antoine accepted and played 
" Menages d'artistes " and encouraged the young 
author to send further plays. The next was 
*' Blanchette," one of the finest achievements of its 
gifted and vigorous author. It is doubtful 

XX 



THE " FREE THEATER '^ 



whether Brieux would have continued to write his 
second play had it not been for Antoine's encour- 
agement. In his dedication of " Blanchette '^ 
Brieux says: *' My Dear Friend, For ten years 
I peddled my plays to every manager in Paris; 
more often than not, they were not even read. 
Thanks to you, thanks to the ' Theatre Libre,' I 
am at last able to learn my business as a dramatist, 
and now here is the second of my plays which you 
have produced. I wish to thank you in public." 

Jean Aicard, poet of the South, though not pri- 
marily a dramatist, has written at least one play of 
superlative merit: '' Le Pere Lebonnard " has 
been seen, since it was first produced by Antoine, in 
nearly every theatrical center of the world, and still 
remains in the repertory of the Comedie Frangaise 
and in that of the great Italian actor, Ermete 
Novelli. 

Pierre Wolff, one of the best-known dramatists 
of to-day, was another whose plays were first ac- 
cepted and produced at the Free Theater. In 
France, ** Le Secret de Polichinelle " and " Le 
Ruisseau " are considered among the best and most 
charming works of the day. In the United States 
Madame Nazimova played in M. Wolff's recent 
comedy, " Les Marionettes." 

Georges Courteline, Paul Ginisty, Frangois de 
Curel, Albert Guinon, and Romain Coolus, un- 
known in the early 'nineties, all debutants at the 
Free Theater, have since achieved distinct success. 
Of these, Curel is by all odds the most significant. 
There is little doubt that such writers as Courteline 
and Coolus, and perhaps Guinon and Ginisty, 
would have attained the rank of " successful " 

xxi 



ANTOINE AND 



dramatists, but had it not been for the foresight 
and determined energy of Antoine, Curel would 
probably have never had a hearing. Antoine liter- 
ally forced a hearing for the earlier works of this 
writer. 

The pioneer work of the Free Theater was soon 
accompHshed: in 1887 a small revolutionary pro- 
test led by a comparatively obscure amateur, by 
1894, it had begun to decline. So well had An- 
toine combatted the conventions he had set him- 
self to destroy, that seven years after the attack his 
enemies had for the most part become friends or at 
least distant admirers and sympathizers, or else 
imitators. Many reasons have been suggested to 
account for the decadence of the Theater: com- 
mercialism, tours, lack of good actors for want of 
funds, poor choice of plays — but the fact is that 
the public had become accustomed to the novelty 
of the ideas set forth by the new movement: every 
one became in a sense revolutionary, so that there 
was nothing to revolt against. 

The commercial theaters, seeing that the plays 
of the Free Theater dramatists were valuable, at 
once received Brieux, Wolff, Curel, Porto-Riche, 
and Courteline, with open arms. The actors, 
trained by Antoine, could not be kept together 
on the small salaries which were the natural re- 
sult of the very limited number of productions — 
two only of each new play. They went forth and 
without difficulty obtained lucrative positions in 
many of the best theaters in Paris. 

Realizing that his work was over, Antoine re- 
signed in 1896, leaving his theater — re-named 
the " Theatre Antoine " — in the hands of Laro- 

xxii 



THE " FREE THEATER '' 



chelle, and became an actor. But in 1906 he ac- 
cepted the directorship of the Odeon. For over 
seven years he struggled against insufficient subsi- 
dies, and now has to his credit a large number of 
new productions, besides some of the worthiest of 
classical revivals as director of this government 
theater. As this book is about to go to press, the 
news comes from Paris that Antoine, worn out 
with his gigantic task and ruined financially, has re- 
signed.^ 

Among the numerous followers of Antoine, 
Lugne-Poe and his " Theatre de I'Oeuvre " should 
first be mentioned. This society is one of the 
most important in the world. For over twenty 
years the indefatigable " Lugne " has made it a 
point to introduce new and original French plays as 
well as foreign works. These he has produced in 
Paris for short runs, but his greatest contribu- 
tion to the art of the theater has been his long 
and extended tours: in Africa, England, South 
America, Russia, Belgium, Germany, Servia — 

2 In a letter to the Figaro, dated April 8, 1914, he writes to 
the Minister of Public Instruction and Fine Arts: " M. le 
Ministre: I regret that I have to ask you to accept my resig- 
nation. The various solutions we discussed during the meet- 
ing yesterday have not by this morning come to pass. It was 
unavoidable that I should be unable to cope with these over- 
whelming financial obligations. At this juncture I see no other 
course open to me but the one I am pursuing. I leave the 
Odeon with many regrets in spite of the seven abominable years 
I have spent there. In spite of your kind assistance during these 
past few days the production of ' Psyche ' [Moliere's] last night 
cost me much more than the figure of the receipts. I must 
therefore courageously face the prospect of giving up my dream 
of a prosperous art-theater, and apply myself energetically to 
solving a terrible problem wherein I shall lose my honor as a 
business man and the decoration so kindly given me by the lib- 
erality of the Government. Yours, etc., Andre Antoine." 

xxiii 



ANTOINE AND 



nearly every country except the United States. 
Lugne-Poe it was who first introduced Maeterlinck 
to the French, and the world at large; he has like- 
wise mounted hundreds of plays, among them the 
most typical works of the German, Russian, and 
Scandinavian schools. Of late, his special 
matinees in Paris have afforded the somewhat blase 
audiences of that city the opportunity of becoming 
acquainted with Synge. The " Playboy of the 
Western World," given in the " Theatre Antoine " 
by the " Theatre de I'Oeuvre " in December 1913, 
served at least to open the eyes of the French to the 
fact that there was a drama in Ireland, even if the 
production left much to be desired. Lugne-Poe 
determined to show his people that France was 
not the only country in the world which was im- 
portant theatrically, has continued fearlessly and 
intelligently to force his compatriots to recognize 
the value of the foreigners. 

A word may be said at this point of a few other 
similar ventures. The first, the " Cercle des 
Escholiers," founded at the same time as the Free 
Theater, is a private association, founded by and 
now under the leadership of M. Georges Bour- 
don — of the " Figaro " — to whom I am indebted 
for a good deal of information on his own theater 
as well as on the Antoine venture. The " Theatre 
d'Art," Carre's " Matinees du jeudi," Jacques 
Rouche's " Theatre des Arts," and Jacques 
Copeau's " Theatre du Vieux-colombier," founded 
about a year ago, may all be traced to the influence 
of the Free Theater. 



XXIV 



THE " FREE THEATER '' 



THE THEORY OF THE FREE THEATER 

Antolne founded his Free Theater with the idea 
of inducing new and original dramatists to present 
works which the prejudice of managers and public 
otherwise kept from the stage. The French stage 
of the day was so conventional that only plays 
written according to accepted standards would at- 
tract audiences. At least, this is what the man- 
agers thought — and the result was the same. 
Together with conventional plays went conven- 
tional acting and conventional stage-setting. 

Antoine felt that all this was wrong, and he set 
it right. Adolphe Thalasso briefly sums up the 
" esthetique " of the new theater in his " Le Thea- 
tre Libre " (Mercure de France, 1909) : " Plays 
in which life supphes movement begin to take the 
place of those in which movement supplied life. 
Complicated plots give way to simple stories; the 
play of intrigue is offset by the study of reality; 
characters become natural, classic; the tragic and 
comic are no longer mingled; the genres have be- 
come distinct. Interminable, vagarious plays give 
way to short, concise, rapid ones. The tirade dis- 
appears; bombast and bathos are relegated to the 
background ... no more * raisonneurs ' . . . 
facts alone explain the philosophy of the piece. 
The eternally sympathetic and benevolent charac- 
ter is likewise driven out. The authors go to the 
very sources of hfe for the morality of their plays. 
So much the worse for morality if their ' moral ' 
is immoral! Such is life — and the theater 
should be not an amusement, but an image of life. 
Technical gymnastics are thrown aside: the hu- 

XXV 



ANTOINE AND 



man heart needs more than tricks of the trade in 
order to be explained. . . . The theater of to-day 
must be a revolt against that of yesterday. As in 
all revolutions, there is a good deal of exaggera- 
tion, for the new methods are driven home with 
hammering blows. To attain the desired end, the 
revolutionists overstep the limit, and in striking 
down the guilty, the innocent are not spared." 

This at least is a fairly accurate statement of 
the theory of the Free Theater, but the theory, it 
goes without saying, was not always lived up to. 
Scribe and Sardou were too deeply imbedded in 
the consciousness of the French nation to allow a 
few reformers to escape their influence. The long 
speeches, tirades, asides, and soliloquies which 
the innovators scorned — in theory — are often to 
be found in the earlier plays of Jullien, Curel, 
Ancey, and Brieux. Yet those finer qualities — a 
love of truth in the analysis of character, a desire 
to get nearer to the life and motives of the average 
human being which were encouraged by Antoine, 
— were, in spite of occasional slips and back-slid- 
Ings, early manifested, and to this day have borne 
rich fruit. 

THE ACTING 

The Free Theater evolved a style of acting all 
its own. That style may be called Naturalistic. 
Its greatest contribution was largely a negative 
one. It constituted a protest against the Con- 
servatoire, where the art of acting was handed 
down by tradition from one famous actor to the 
next. There was one way of acting Harpagon, 
or Tartufe, or Phedre, and only one way; the 
xxvi 



THE " FREE THEATER '' 



students at the Conservatoire received their in- 
struction from pupils of Samson or Got or Talma, 
who in turn had received them from the great 
actors of their generation. The process tended 
to eliminate originality, although it produced an 
average of finished work which in the French 
classics is at least admissible. But with the ad- 
vent of a new school of drama, a new school of 
acting was indispensable. 

When Antoine dared to turn his back to the 
audience, the audience jeered. To-day there is 
scarcely an actor in Paris who has not learned from 
Antoine. Antoine knew what he was about, and 
so well did he insinuate his new ideas into the com- 
pany, that before long his actors left him and en- 
tered the large commercial theaters on the boule- 
vards. Nearly every theater in Paris, including 
the Comedie Frangaise and the Odeon, either has 
at present or has had within the past few years, 
at least one former Free Theater actor in its staff 
of players. 

THE DRAMATISTS 

The mere enumeration of dramatic writers 
whose first works (or first save one) were heard 
at the Free Theater would fill four pages. Of 
those dramatists who are to-day either in the 
front rank of accepted playwrights may be men- 
tioned: Brieux, Curel, Coolus, Courteline, Mar- 
cel P'revost, Lucien Descaves, Lavedan, Porto- 
Riche, Gustave Guiches, Andre Picard, Pierre 
Wolff, Emile Fabre, Paul Ginisty, Armand Eph- 
ralm, and Jean Aicard. Among those who are no 
longer writing, but who largely contributed to the 
XXV ii 



ANTOINE AND 



founding of the movement and standardizing of 
the new methods, are : Jean JuUien, Georges 
Ancey, Paul Alexis, Emile Zola, Gaston Salandri, 
Henry Ceard, Leon Hennique, the Goncourts, and 
Vllllers de I'lsle Adam. 

Brieiix. — Eugene Brieux (born 1858 at Paris) 
is a true son of the Free Theater. His first im- 
portant play, " Menages d' Artistes " was fairly 
successful, and the encouragement received from, 
this first production was largely Instrumental in 
starting his theatrical career. " Blanchette '* 
(1892) ^ was one of the greatest successes of the 
day, and is now frequently revived at the Comedie 
Francalse and In the provinces. Brieux's vigor- 
ous and straightforward manner of attacking the 
social abuses of his time was in all llkehhood fos- 
tered by the freedom from restraint which was 
the chief glory of the Free Theater. That 
'' Damaged Goods " and " The Red Robe " and 
" The Three Daughters of M. Dupont '' have 
been accepted by the theater-going publics of the 
most Important nations of the world is to some ex- 
tent due to Antoine. 

Francois de Curel. — Viscount Frangois de Curel 
(born 1854 at Metz) Is without doubt the most 
original and clear-minded dramatist of recent 
times. His comparatively few plays deal almost 
exclusively with abnormal human characteristics; 
were they not treated from the psychological view- 
point and written in a literary though thoroughly 
dramatic style they would be termed melodramas. 
" L'Envers d'une Sainte," his first play, is an 

3 " Blanchette " would have been included in the present vol- 
ume had it not already appeared in the Fall of 1913: 
"Blanchette and the Escape" (Luce). 

xxviii 



THE '' FREE THEATER '' 



extraordinary and noble study of a woman's con- 
science ; it is a distinct contribution to criminal psy- 
chology. " Le Repas du Lion " is another study 
in the gradual metamorphosis of a conscience. 
His latest play (winter 19 14) " La Danse devant 
le Miroir " is one of the most daring and searching 
analyses of the mind and heart of a young girl in 
the realm of French drama; beside it, Henri Ba- 
taille's " La Vierge folk " is pale and unconvinc- 
ing. A slow worker, holding himself aloof from 
society, from the world of the practical theater, 
caring little for the conventions of the stage, Curel 
is not a popular idol. He is respected by the 
many, w^armly appreciated by the few. 

" Les Fossiles " was presented in its original 
form at the Free Theater in 1892. The play 
was badly cast so that the performance was a fail- 
ure, but in 1900, after some revision, it was given 
a fair hearing at the Comedie Frangaise, and 
achieved considerable success. " Les Fossiles " 
comes the nearest of any of its author's plays to 
the popular conception of what a play should be. 
There is more action and less abstract psychology 
in it than in any other Curel work, yet the basic 
idea is never for a moment sacrificed for theatrical 
effects. Curel, an aristocrat himself, is enough 
of an artist to adopt a transcendental point of view 
and comment upon the nobility of the time. " Les 
Fossiles " is the story of a noble family which 
gives up life, happiness and even individual honor 
in order to save the family name. The aspira- 
tions, struggles, above all, that undying, deep- 
rooted desire to live in the future are pictured in 
this play with unforgettable vividness. Besides be- 

xxix 



ANTOINE AND 



ing a comment on and a picture of life, the play 
contains an ideal: Robert de Chantemelle in his 
will and in his life, attempts to direct the energies 
of his family from becoming fossilized to the 
nobler realization of their duties to society and the 
State. If the play contains a lesson at all it is 
that. 

Jean JuUien. — Jean Jullien (born at Lyon, 
1854) fixed the style of the Free Theater play once 
for all in " La Serenade." His plays, and more 
especially his theories ^ — that " a play is a slice of 
life presented artistically on the stage " is his best- 
known — became at once a sort of confession of 
faith for the Theater. " La Serenade " (1887) 
stands for the younger generation, which stood for 
the presentation in all its ugliness of the " other 
side " of life. Its brutality, its exaggeration, its 
sordidness, are not so much signs of a positive 
philosophy of life, as a savage revolt against the 
lay-figures of the conventional drama of the nine- 
teenth century; Mme. Cottin would surely not have 
been painted so black were the Little Nell heroines 
of Augier and Scribe and Sardou not quite so 
dazzlingly virginal. 

Jullien, in this play as well as in his other im- 
portant play, " Le Maitre," was too conscientious, 
too unbending and uncompromising, to meet the 
popular demand in theatrical goods, so that with 
the close of the Free Theater his activity prac- 
tically ceased. 

Georges Ancey. — Georges Ancey (born i860 
at Paris) like Jullien, was too independent to se- 
cure and hold public favor. Yet his power of ob- 

4 See "Le Theatre vivant " (Charpentier, Paris, 1892). 
XXX 



THE " FREE THEATER " 



servation, his mordant satire, his trenchant and oc- 
casionally overdrawn pictures of middle-class 
family life, formed one of the greatest contri- 
butions to the movement. " Les Inseparables '* 
(1889) and "L'Ecole des Veufs " (1889) are 
splendid examples of Ancey's comic power, while 
" La Dupe " ( 1 89 1 ) presents him in the light of a 
commentator on the darker side of human nature. 
The play suffers from exaggeration of character 
which at times seems all but puerile, but the true 
tragedy of the situation, the inherent power and 
irony of the story, the numerous striking scenes, 
more than counterbalance the somewhat amateur- 
ish shortcomings. 

Georges de Porto-Rkhe. — Georges de Porto- 
Riche (born at Bordeaux, 1849) while he did not 
greatly aid the new movement, received help and 
inspiration from it. His first success, " La Chance 
de Frangoise " (1888) must surely have paved the 
way for his masterpiece, " Amoureuse " (1891), 
a play which has exercised as great an influence 
upon the contemporary French drama as any other 
of the late nineteenth century. Henry Bataille 
and Maurice Donnay owe much to Porto-Riche. 

Antoine's acceptance of " La Chance de Fran- 
goise " was but another indication of his breadth of 
view. He did not insist on sordid middle-class 
dramas : his idea was to produce what seemed good 
and original. Porto-Riche had a charming char- 
acter study, Antoine liked it, and produced it. 
His good judgment has by half a dozen revivals 
at the best-known theaters of the capital been 
amply justified. 



XXXI 



ANTOINE AND 



THE INFLUENCE OF THE FREE THEATER 

The influence of Antoine's ideas on managers 
was great and wide-spread. These were led to 
inquire into the vahdity of the traditions they had 
for so long blindly accepted, and cast aside what 
was superfluous. A new generation of actors 
arose which though it owed a good deal to its own 
intelligence and initiative was yet decidedly in- 
fluenced by Antoine. The vigorous acting of 
Lucien Guitry, the exquisite and delicate art of 
Madame Simone — to mention no others — seem 
but the natural development from the little group 
of amateurs which gathered together in 1887 in 
the Rue de I'Elysee des Beaux-Arts. 

" I beHeve," says Curel, " that the greatest serv- 
ice rendered by the Free Theater was that of liber- 
ating the modern French stage of all schools and 
literary coteries. A day will come when greater 
justice will be done our dramatic era, when the 
full extent of its originality and independence will 
be fully realized. The originality and independ- 
ence of which I speak are due for the most part to 
the Free Theater." 

If the Free Theater has exercised the greatest 
influence over the modern French stage, which it 
has, we must not be too hasty to conclude that the 
entire modern movement was due to Antoine. It 
so happened that he came at the right time, that 
the " dramatic crisis " would sooner or later have 
precipitated some sort of revolution. Antoine 
helped crystallize the ideas that were in the air. 
He was far from a perfect manager, nor was his 
judgment unerring. He was human enough, at 
xxxii 



THE " FREE THEATER 



one time, to desire to leave the theater he had 
founded, and become a salaried actor; at another, 
he nearly ruined his theater by selecting plays 
which were accommodated to the actors with little 
reference to the merit of the piece. His produc- 
tions at the Odeon (granted even that he was work- 
ing at a terrible disadvantage) were often slip- 
shod, unworthy even of those " commercial " thea- 
ters he had so often ridiculed and whose conven- 
tional methods he had spent the greater part of his 
life in destroying. If he has done valuable work, 
he has done harm; if he freed the stage from one 
set of conventions he has gone a long way to im- 
pose another set, which may in time be as injurious 
as those he destroyed. Yet that is only what might 
have been expected of a man who was — permit 
the platitude — no more than human. Antoine's 
work belonged to a particular period, and that 
period was the turning-point in the history of the 
modern French theater. While he was forced to 
fight his way his work was sincere and for the 
rnost part beneficial. If to-day other nations — 
like Germany and Russia — have gone beyond 
him, and if certain managers in his own land have 
taken what was best from his work, he is not to 
be blamed. For about ten years he was the best 
and most influential producer in Europe, and a 
revolutionary to whom the highest tribute should 
be paid. 

Antoine was the prophet of the transition: 
Naturalism in fiction was bound to bring forth 
Naturalism In the theater. Naturalism was a 
passing phase: we have seen its rise and fall. If 
Antoine helped Naturalism in the theater to rise 
xxxiii 



THE '' FREE THEATER " 



and fall, he has honestly done his share — a gen- 
erous share — in the evolution of an art which is 
advancing, although we are as yet unable to de- 
termine toward just what end. 

To MM. Brieux, Curel, and Antolne I owe my 
deepest gratitude for a great deal of valuable in- 
formation on the movement in which they played 
so important a part. In numerous conversations 
these gentlemen have been unsparing in time and 
trouble, and afforded me an insight into their 
work which I could not otherwise have enjoyed. 

Barrett H. Clark. 



xxxiv 



ALPHABETICAL LIST OF PLAYS PRO- 
DUCED AT THE FREE THEATER 
YEARS 1 887-1 896, INCLUSIVE ^ 

A bas le progres. Edmond de Goncourt. 
L'Abbe Pierre. Marcel Prevost. 
L'Affranchie. Maurice Biollay. 
Ahasuere. Hermann Heijermans. 
L'Amant de sa femme. Aurelien Scholl. 
L'Amant du Christ. Rodolphe Darzens. 
Amants eternels. Andre Corneau et H. Ger- 

bault. 
L'Ame invisible. Claude Berton. 
L'Ancien. Leon Cladel. 
L' Argent. Emile Fabre. 
L'Assomption de Hannele Mattern. Gerhart 

Hauptmann. 
Au^temps de la Ballade. Georges Bols. 
Le Baiser. Theodore de Banville. 
La Belle au bois revant. Fernand Mazade. 
La Belle Operation. Julien Sermet. 
Belle Petite. Andre Corneau. 
Blanchette. Brieux. 
Boubouroche. Georges Courteline. 
Les Bouchers. Fernand Icres. 
Le Canard Sauvage. Ibsen. 
La Casserole. Oscar Metenier. 
La Chance de Frangoise. Georges de Porto- 

Riche. 

1 From " Le Theatre Libre" by Adolphe Thalasso (Mercure 
de France, 1909). 

XXXV 



LIST OF PLAYS 



Les Chapons. Lucien Descaves et Georges 
Darlen. 

La Chevalerie Rustique. Giovanni Verga. 

La Cocarde. Jules Vidal. 

Le Coeur revelateur. Ernest Laumann. 

Coeurs simples. Sutter-Laumann. 

Le Comte Witold. Stanislas Rzewuski. 

Conte de Noel. Auguste Linert. 

Le Cor fleuri. Mikhael Ephraim. 

Le Cuivre. Paul Adam et Andre Picard. 

Dans le Guignol. Jean Aicard. 

Dans le Reve. Louis Mullem. 

Deux Tourtereaux. Paul Ginisty et Jules 
Guerin. 

Le Devoir. Louis Bruyerre. 

Dialogue inconnu. Alfred de Vigny. 

La Dupe. Georges Ancey. 

L'Echeance. Jean Jullien. 

L'Ecole des Veufs. Georges Ancey. 

Elen. Villiers de I'lsle Adam. 

En Detresse. Henry Fevre. 

En Famille. Oscar Metenier. 

En I'attendant. Leon Roux 

L'Envers d'une Sainte. Francois de Cure!. 

Esther Brandes. Leon Hennique. 

L'Etoile Rouge. Henry Fevre. 

L'Evasion. Villiers de I'lsle Adam. 

La Femme de Tabarin. Catulle Mendes. 

Les Fenetres. Jules Perrin et Claude Cou- 
turier. 

La Fille d'Artaban. Alfred Mortier. 

La Fille Elisa. Jean Aj albert. 

La Fin de Lucie Pellegrin. Paul Alexis. 

La Fin du vieux temps. Paul Anthelm. 
xxxvi 



LIST OF PLAYS 



Les Fosslles. Frangois de Curel. 

Les Fourches caudines. Maurice Le Corbeiller. 

Les Freres Zemganno. Paul Alexis et Oscar 

Metenier. 
La Fumee puis la flamme. Joseph Caragull. 
Grand-papa. Claude Berton. 
La Grappin. Gaston Salandri. 
L'Honneur. Henry Fevre. 
Inceste d'ames. Jean Laurenty et Fernand 

Hauser. 
L'Inquietude. Jules Perrin et Claude Cour- 

turier. 
Les Inseparables. Georges Ancey. 
Jacques Bouchard. Pierre Wolff. 
Jacques Damour. Leon Hennique. 
Jeune Premier. Paul Ginisty. 
Leurs filles. Pierre Wolff. 
Lidoire. Georges Courteline. 
Madeleine. Emile Zola. 
Mademoiselle Fifi. Oscar Metenier. 
Mademoiselle Julie. August Strindberg. 
Mademoiselle Pomme. Paul Alexis et Dur- 

anty. 
Le Maitre. Jean JuUien. 
Mariage d'argent. Eugene Bourgeois. 
Les Maris de leurs filles. Pierre Wolff. 
Matapan. Emile Moreau. 
Melie. Georges Docquois. 
Le Menage Bresile. Romain Coolus. 
Menages d'artistes. Brieux. 
La Meule. Georges Lecomte. 
Mirages. Georges Lecomte. 
Le Missionaire. Marcel Luguet. 
Monsieur Bute. Maurice BioUay. 
XXX vii 



LIST OF PLAYS 



Monsieur Lamblin. Georges Ancey. 

La Mort du Due d'Enghien. Leon Hennique. 

Myrane. Emile Bergerat. 

La Nebuleuse. Louis Dumur. 

Nell Horn. J. H. et J. Rosny. 

La Nuit Bergamesque. Emile Bergerat. 

Le Pain d'autrui. Armand Ephraim et Willy 

Schultz. 
Le Pain du Peche. Paul Arene. 
La Patrie en danger. Edmond et Jules de 

Goncourt. 
La Peche. Henry Ceard. 
Peche d'amour. Michel Carre et Georges 

Loiseau. 
La Pelote. Paul Bonnetain et Lucien Des- 

caves. 
Le Pendu. Eugene Bourgeois. 
Le Pere Goriot. M. Tabarant. 
Le Pere Lebonnard. Jean Aicard. 
Pierrot assassin de sa femme. Paul Mar- 

gueritte. 
Le Poete et le Financier. Maurice Vaucaire. 
La Prose. Gaston Salandrl. 
La Puissance des Tenebres. Tolstoi. 
Les Quarts-d'heure. Gustave Guiches et 

Henry Lavedan. 
La Rangon. Gaston Salandri. 
La Reine Fiammette. Catulle Mendes. 
Les Resignes. Henry Ceard. 
Les Revenants. Ibsen. 
Rolande. Louis de Gramont. 
La Serenade. Jean JuUien. 
Seul. Albert Guinon. 
Si c'etait . . . Paul Lheureux. 
xxxviii 



LIST OF PLAYS 



Simone. Louis de Gramont. 

Soeur Phllomene. Arthur Byl et Jules Vidal. 

Soldat et mineur. Jean Malafayde. 

Son petit coeur. Louis Marsollau. 

La Tante Leontine. Maurice Boniface et 

Edouard Bodin. 
Les Tisserands. Gerhart Hauptmann. 
Tout pour I'honneur. Henry Ceard. 
Un beau soir. Maurice Vaucaire. 
Une Faillite. Bjornstjerne Bjornson. 
Une Journee parlementaire. Maurice Barres. 
Une nouvelle ecole. Louis Mullem. 
Un prefet. Arthur Byl. 
Valet de Coeur. Maurice Vaucaire. 



XXXIX 



REFERENCES 

Among the great mass of contemporary criti- 
cism, collected from periodicals, may be men- 
tioned: S'arcey, Quarante arts de Theatre; Jules 
Lemaitre, Impressions de Theatre; Emile Faguet, 
Propos de Theatre; and Edmond Stoullig, Les 
Annales du Theatre et de la Musi que. 

Books and essays on the Free Theater : Adolphe 
Thalasso, " Le Theatre Libre" (Mercure de 
France) ; Augustin Filon, " De Dumas a Ros- 
tand " (Colin); Jean Jullien, " Le Theatre 
Vivant " (Charpentier) ; " Le Theatre Libre" 
(privately printed brochure, Mai 1890). 

Individual biographies of Brieuxj Curel, Porto- 
Riche, Courteline, Lucien Descaves, and Jean 
Aicard, in the Celebrites d'Aujourd'hui series 
(Sansot). 

Further bibliographical and biographical ma- 
terial in: George Moore, "Impressions and 
Opinions" (Brentano) ; Barrett H. Clark, The 
Continental Drama of To-day (Holt). Maga- 
zines: The Drama, Nos. 2 and 11. 



xl 



The Fossils 

(Les Fossiles) 

A Play in Four Acts 

By 
FRANCOIS DE CUREL 

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY 

BARRETT H. CLARK 



Produced for the first time in its original form, 
at Paris in the Theatre Libre, November 29, 
1892; revived, in its present form, by the company 
of the Theatre Frangais, in the Odeon Theater, 
May 21, 1900. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED: 

The Duke of Chantemelle 

Robert de Chantemelle 

Nicolas 

A Farmer 

A Country Neighbor 

A Servant 

The Duchess de Chantemelle 

Claire de Chantemelle 

Helene Vatrin 

A Nun 



CASTS 





i8g2 


The Duke de Chante- 




melle 


MM. Antoine 


Robert de Chante- 




melle 


Camis 


Nicolas 


Arquilllere 
Pens-Aries 


A Farmer 


A Country Neigh- 




bor 


Gemler 


A Servant 


Verse 


The Duchess de Chan- 




temelle 


Mmes. Besnier 


Claire de Chante- 




melle 


Berthe Bady 


Helene Vatrin 


Jeanne Dulac 


A Nun 

3 


Mereane 



FOUR 


PLAYS 




igoo 


The Duke de Chante- 




MELLE 


MM. Paul Mounet 


Robert de Chante- 




MELLE 


Le Bargy 


Nicolas 


Laugier 


A Farmer 


Ravet 


A Country Neighbor. 


Joliet 


A Servant 


Laty 


The Duchess de Chan- 


TEMELLE 


Mmes. Plerson 


Claire de Chante- 




MELLE 


Bartet 


Helene Vatrin 


Wanda de Bencza 


A Nun . ., 


Delvair 



THE FOSSILS 
ACT I 

[^ large country house in the Ardennes. — 
A spacious zvainscotted room; to the right, 
windows partially concealed by thick curtains; 
to the left, a high fireplace between two doors. 
At the back, a large doorway opening into a 
'vestibule. The paneling around this door, as 
well as the walls of the. room, is covered with 
panoplies, hunting trophies, old armor, gene- 
alogical charts, and maps of ancient domains. 
The furnishings are severe; the room breathes 
an air of feudalism. 

It is evening; a single lamp gives out a 
sickly light into the room. From time to time 
the fire, which is concealed for the most part in 
ashes, shoots forth little flames. Outside, a 
storm is beginning ; the whistling of the wind is 
heard. 

Enter Claire. She looks quickly about her, 
goes to the window and raises the curtain to 
look into the night, but the inside shutters are 
closed. She makes a little gesture of impa- 
tience, then goes at once to the door at the back, 
and is about to leave the room when a servant 
enters carrying an armful of wood. She inter- 
cepts him and asks"] 

Claire. There is a carriage outside from 
town; whose is it? 

5 



FOUR PLAYS 



Servant. The doctor's, Mademoiselle. 
Claire. The doctor from Paris? 
Servant. The doctor from Paris and the one 
from town also. 

Claire. But the consultation was not to take 
place until to-morrow? 

Servant. I heard the gentlemen telling Ma- 
dame la duchesse that the doctor from Paris has 
to make a speech to-morrow before the Academy 
of Science. So he telegraphed and said he would 
come to-day. The telegram didn't arrive because 
of the frost that broke all the wires this side of 
Sedan. 

Claire. Do you know whether the doctors are 
to take dinner here ? 

Servant. Oh, no, Mademoiselle; they didn't 
even unhitch their horses. When I was coming 
up-stairs just now, I overheard them talking with 
Madame la duchesse; they're probably gone by 
this time. 

Claire. Has my father come in yet? 
Servant. I haven't seen any one. 
Claire. Very well! 

[She sits beside a table, down-stage, and leans 
upon it, meditating. The servant puts the 
• wood by the fireplace, lays a log on the fire, 
and goes out. After a moment, Claire rises, 
opens the door at the back, listens, then 
comes back to the fireplace, standing before 
it, her head resting upon the stone man- 
tel. 
Enter the Duchess at the back. Her ex- 
pression is one of great sadness; her eyes 
are red from crying. Claire turns round, 
6 



THE FOSSILS 



and the Duchess throws herself precipitately 
into her arms. 2 

Duchess. Your poor brother! 

Claire. Worse?! 

Duchess. Yes! We have to send him 
south. He will never come back to us — I 
know It! 

Claire. Is it that bad? 

Duchess. The doctors gave him all sorts of 
encouragement. I don't know whether he be- 
lived them, but I knew well enough they weren't 
telling the truth ! I saw them to their carriage, 
and the moment they were saying Good-by — I 
was on the steps, with snow on my feet, and I 
was quite sure Robert was out of hearing, — I 
asked them for the truth. 

Claire. But if they're sending him south — ? 

Duchess. He will never recover! Per- 
haps the climate at Nice will prolong his life for 
a few months — perhaps ! [Holding back her 
tears. ^ Here, they told me, it was only a ques- 
tion of days — 

[^She falls into a chair, her face buried in a 
handkerchief. Claire, standing as before 
at the fireplace, is crying also, hut she con- 
trols her feelings.^ 

Claire. They must be exaggerating ! 

Duchess. Our only hope is in God! — 
[After a pause.] What a blow for your father! 

Claire [dryly]. Yes, it is! But he will be 
able to survive: hasn't he his hunting, his dogs, 
his horses, and all that? 

Duchess [with severity]. Claire, you never 
miss an opportunity of saying something dls- 

7 



FOUR PLAYS 



agreeable about your father; why? You didn't 
use to do that; I remember when you adored 
him. Why have you changed so suddenly? 
What—? 

Claire [embarrassed'], I haven't changed — 
perhaps I'm not so sympathetic and open as 
when I was a young girl — that's all. You may 
be sure I feel keenly for him. 

Duchess. It will be terrible. His dogs and 
horses will be of little use to him now. He 
loves Robert, and then — he might perhaps have 
had some consolation — ! If Robert had only 
had a brother, if he weren't the only son; if our 
name, the title of Duke, weren't about to die out 
— do you understand? 

Claire. Do I understand? [Tense with ex- 
citement.] The Dukes of Chantemelle! Their 
names are on every page of the history of France ! 
It's terrible to have Robert so near the end, — 
to think that after his death all our glory, our 
almost royal greatness, will be only a dream of 
the past ! If I am only a woman, I am proud 
of the name of Chantemelle ! As proud as 
Father ! Oh, what he will suffer when he comes 
in and hears the news ! — Listen, Mother, I al- 
ways intended never to get married, so that my 
share of the family fortune would go to Rob- 
ert: a Duke de Chantemelle must live up to his 
name ! — 

Duchess. You are a true daughter of your 
father — and Robert is like you, too : you live 
in the past, it claims you, but you never realize 
how much the present forgets you — Times have 
changed ! — Let the Duke de Chantemelle cease 

8 



THE FOSSILS 



to exist, and the world will feel no loss. [Sob- 
bin^.} Only I, with my mother's heart — ! 
\_Robert enters, overhearing the last few 
words, a witness of the distress of his 
mother and sister. He is a man of distin- 
guished bearing, with a pale face, feverish 
eyes, hollow cheeks, and fiat chest. He 
gives the impression of one who is fighting 
bravely against disease and death.~\ 
Robert. Courage, Mother! [Smiling sad- 
ly. ~\ I'm still alive! 

'DucKESS [rising in alarm]. My child! You 
are not in the slightest danger! That is, the 
doctors said nothing definite ! You know what 
they told you : a winter in Nice will give you new 
life ! 

Robert. That's what you said. Mother: they 
said that a winter In Nice would do me a great 
deal of good, that was all! It's something, of 
course! [Ironically.] Well, let us believe 
them — 

Duchess. Of course, we must believe them ! 
They impressed it on me again just as they were 
leaving. 

Robert [impatiently]. Oh, very well! Has 
Father come in yet? 

Claire. No. The snow is so deep ! It's so 
cold! 

Robert [with a sigh]. I can imagine what's 
happened! They must have shot a number of 
boars; in this weather, it would be easy. Prob- 
ably they wounded a big one, and chased him 
along his bloody trail until dark, for leagues 
and leagues ! I can see them now, tired out, 

9 



FOUR PLAYS 



dragging one foot after the other — and the 
wounded dogs, and the hunters with icicles in 
their beards. [Sighing again.'] And just one 
year ago I was doing all that! 

Claire \^with a forced smile]. Do you re- 
gret it, slipping over the icy places, with a dog 
howling at your heels? 

Robert. Yes, I regret the times when we gal- 
loped over the wide fields, Claire, you and I, 
and jumped the ditches and hedges — Now here 
I am, a horseman good for nothing, who sees his 
companion dashing away at full gallop over and 
beyond the horizon — while I — 

Claire [holding back the tears]. His com- 
panion — doesn't ride like that, any more, — 
without him! [Overcome by her tears, quickly.] 
If they didn't have good luck to-day Father's 
coming home in an awful humor. I'll have a 
good fire built in his bed-room. [She goes out 
immediately.] 

Robert [going to the Duchess, who is trying 
to assume an untroubled expression. He takes 
her hands, forces her to look into his face and, 
after a short silence]. Now that we're alone. 
Mother, no more ceremonies ! I haven't any il- 
lusions left about my condition; and you, you 
don't hope — ! 

Duchess. But I tell you — 

Robert. Treat me like a man: I should be 
the first Chantemelle to shrink before death ! — 
I once hoped for a different end, but this is only 
a better occasion to show courage, moral courage : 
not the kind that wins battles ! 

Duchess [in an undertone]. You talk so 

ID 



THE FOSSILS 



cold-bloodedly! Your giving in to a Power 
against which no resistance is permitted Is fear- 
ful! There are some times when that Power 
which we ought to bless even when it strikes us — 
[Breaking out into sohs,'\ Oh, I can't bear it! 
I can't bear it! 

Robert. My giving In Is not so hard as you 
think: I had foreseen the blow, I've been prepar- 
ing for It during the past few weeks. My mind 
is quite at ease — 

Duchess [^with an outburst of feeling^. Then 
if you had to — leave us, you would regret noth- 
ing? Your father? Your mother? Your sis- 
ter? No one, nothing? [She sobs.'] 

Robert. I shall have terrible regrets ! I can 
hardly speak of them, when I think how much 
energy I need. It would be a great deal easier 
to brave out the whole thing! 

\^He throws himself into a chair, exhausted, and 
hides his face in his hands. 1^ 

Duchess. Poor child! 

Robert [raises his head and speaks to him- 
self^. If I'm sick, I've got to come to that! — 
Mother, I have a very serious matter to talk to 
you about — the happiness of my last days de- 
pends on It. I want you to promise me some- 
thing. 

Duchess [rising']. What Is It? 

Robert. It's about Mademoiselle Vatrin — 

Duchess [dryly]. I can't Imagine what you 
have to say about her. If It were about any one 
else — She Is a young woman without a sou, 
whom I took care of because her mother was at 
boarding-school with me. The girl owes every- 

II 



FOUR PLAYS 



thing she has to me, and I have even promised 
her a small dowry! Until she finds a husband, 
I am allowing her to associate with your sister: 
Claire broods so much during the year I thought 
it wise to let her have a friend of her own age. 
See how grateful she is ! 

Robert [seated, his head bent over his knees, 
his eyes fixed on the floor^. Mademoiselle 
Vatrin is incapable of ingratitude. You must 
have had some good reason for getting her out of 
the way that summer! I doubt whether she has 
forgotten your kindness. 

Duchess. You doubt? — I should think I 
did have good reasons for doing what I did! 
Mademoiselle Vatrin was much too familiar with 
you men, much too familiar for a young woman 
of twenty-five! I let her know she was over- 
stepping the limits ! Then she left. 

Robert. She told me about it, and also that 
you offered her a pension, which she refused. 

Duchess. Did she tell you that? You?! By 
what right? Why — ? 

Robert [rising]. Yes, she was my mistress. 
We loved one another deeply. What you called 
her familiarity was merely what we failed to 
have the presence of mind to hide. That was 
why you didn't understand. 

Duchess [deeply and strangely troubled, as 
she takes his hands in hers~\. Robert, you can- 
not imagine, you will never know what I feel now, 
when you tell me this ! 

Robert. You suppose, do you, that I am go- 
ing to beg you to let me marry her? No. 

12 



THE FOSSILS 



Helene knows what tremendous opposition she 
would meet with from the family. 

Duchess. Marry her? I never thought of 
it. Why — ! I was so sad this evening, and 
now I am so different. We should never lose 
hope — 

Robert. Your love for me, Mother, is won- 
derful ! My love for that girl fills you with hap- 
piness. Don't deny it, I see it in your face I It 
is as if you considered that my love for her 
formed a strong bond between me and — life ! 
Well, if you're not too angry, I'm happy! 

Duchess [beaming^. I am angry, and I 
blame you very much. How can I keep from 
blaming you for your irregular conduct — think 
of it, she was one of Claire's own friends! 
Your sister might have suspected ! It was an in- 
sult to her ! I don't want to scold you any more, 
Robert, your life is so sad! I'm only too glad to 
see you smile sometimes ! 

Robert [smiling], I know very well you are 
not quite unforgiving. If you will be absolutely 
frank for a single second, I'll show you that you 
are very well satisfied with me. 

Duchess. Satisfied that you seduced a young 
woman under my very roof, a woman who was 
under my protection! A friend of your own 
sister Claire?! 

Robert. You can find many excellent reasons 
to prove that I have done wrong, but there is an- 
other matter — which is anything but unfortu- 
nate — something that you are always thinking 
about. 

13 



FOUR PLAYS 



Duchess [smiling]. All the time? 

Robert. Well, yes! There, you're beam- 
ing ! Tell me now, why are you so glad ? 

Duchess. Why — ? 

Robert. Yes, why? 

Duchess [deciding to make some sort of an- 
swer^. It might do some good — \_After a 
pause.^ Have you ever noticed? I was very 
unhappy — at one time, I thought there was 
something between your father and Mademoiselle 
Vatrin — I was so jealous and humiliated — ! 

Robert. Mother! It was I all the time! 
Oh, I was so happy ! My happiness overflowed ! 
When a river overflows its banks, who can see 
its usual course ? — You were very tender just 
now — and you had no idea why ! 

Duchess. But I wasn't alone in my suspi- 
cions: I am almost positive that Claire was 
haunted with the same thought. Claire is so 
pure and upright: she would never suspect with- 
out good reason! There were at least some ap- 
pearances — ! One day, Claire came to me, it 
was six months ago — when my suspicions were 
strongest — I was terribly tormented, I spied on 
your father, even. — She told me she was tired 
of Helene's company, that they didn't get along 
well together, that she would be glad to get rid 
of her. Of course she didn't tell me her sus- 
picions in so many words : a young girl like that ! 
Then I couldn't question her, you understand! 
Well, I was at my wits' end. I might have risked 
my own peace of mind, but to expose my daugh- 
ter to that — the day after, Mademoiselle Vatrin 
left. 

14 



THE FOSSILS 



Robert. We weren't careful enough. Claire 
is very sensitive and proud, and I shouldn't like 
her to have found out about us — You see, we 
are the ones! 

Duchess. Yes, thank Heaven! But Claire 
changed toward her father just as I did, from 
that time on. Haven't you noticed how formal 
and distant she is toward him ! She never says 
nice things to him, nor gives him little surprises 
as she used to! She is even rather impudent at 
times ! 

Robert. Yes, I've noticed. Perhaps we can 
insinuate that she was on the wrong scent. 

Duchess. We must try, yes ! I love your 
father deeply, and my first duty is to make you 
respect him. We must forget what I've said 
here — it was an insult to him — . I shall re- 
member only one thing: my almost scandalous joy 
in finding out my mistake. 

Robert [seriously']. Mother, it is to our in- 
terest to forget these things — [After a pause, in 
a low tone.] I still want to ask you for that 
promise. It is this : I want to see Helene once 
more before I die. Let her come here. I ad- 
mit, I'm asking a great deal, but — 

Duchess. It is a great deal! Do you 
mean — ? Mademoiselle Vatrin, your — Ma- 
demoiselle Vatrin under our roof? What if 
Claire should meet her and they should talk — ! 
Claire, your own sister ! Just think ! 

Robert. Do you imagine that I should ask 
you without considering the whole matter? I 
confess it's a mad idea, but I must see her. If 
you refuse, I'll go to her. 

15 



FOUR PLAYS 



Duchess. You! To her!? In your state, 
all alone ! It would be your death ! 

Robert [excitedly]. A few weeks more or 
less will make very little difference ! I beg you, 
let her come ! Not only must I see her, but you 
must welcome her yourself! 

Duchess [with determination']. No! You 
mustn't think of it! 

Robert. She is the mother of my son — 

DuCKESS [thunderstruck]. A son! My God, 
Robert, what are you telling me ? ! A son ! 

Robert [rather warmly]. Having no per- 
sonal fortune, I can't leave them anything. 
Helene's Hfe and the child's are therefore at your 
mercy. I confide them to your care — my son ! 
Think, Mother, where yours will be before long! 
Treat mine a little as you would your own ! — 

[He stops, gasping for breath, his hand on 
his chest.] 

Duchess [holding hack the tears]. Rest, 
Robert! We'll send your sister away for a day 
or two : your father will take her ! Mademoiselle 
Vatrin may come then, I shall treat her well. 
The child — Oh, if I had suspected that when I 
was so tormented about your father I couldn't 
have stood it all! When was he born? 

Robert. Two months ago — at Paris. 

Duchess [hesitating]. What — ? Under 
what name? I don't know what they do in such 
a case? I mean, how did they name the child? 

Robert [surprised]. Why, Vatrin, of course, 
like his mother. — Now, my duty is to make pro- 
vision for their future. I beg you on my knees 

i6 



THE FOSSILS 



to do this — But to call him anything but Va- 
trin — ! 

Duchess [as if relieved of a great weight']. 
Oh, Robert, I can breathe again! 

[Enter the Duke, in hunting costume, followed 
by a servant who lights a 'paper torch from 
the fire, goes out and returns a moment later 
with two lighted lamps; he goes out once 
more to get the Duke' s slippers. The stage 
is brightly illuminated.] 
Duke. Good evening! 
Duchess. You are late, Henri! 
[She kisses him with great tenderness, at which 

he is surprised.] 
Robert [inquisitively]. What did you kill? 
Duke. Don't say anything about that! We 
had fearful luck ! When we got to the wood this 
morning, we were on the trails of nearly thirty 
boars. We were going to have the devil of a fine 
chase ! 

Robert [impatiently]. Did you kill any- 
thing? 

Duke. A little sow — weighed only a hun- 
dred and twenty! I put a bullet through her, 
and the dogs finished up a quarter of an hour 
later. 

[Enter the servant, with the Duke' s slippers, 

— The fire burns brightly.] 
Duchess. Here are your slippers; you 
ought to change before the snow melts through 
your overshoes; look how it's running! You're 
in a regular puddle ! 

Duke [sitting by the fireplace]. Lord, what 
17 



FOUR PLAYS 



a splendid fire ! That puts life into you ! IHe 
stretches forth his feet, and the servant puts on 
the slippers.'] 

Robert. Is it snowing? 

Duke. Hard: the branches of the trees are 
beginning to break with the weight. We were 
hard put to find our way this evening. 

Servant \_rises, takes the hoots and leggings, 
and is about to leave]. Nicolas the forester 
wishes to know whether he may see Monsieur? 

Duke [quickly]. Yes, yes, in the antecham- 
ber; I'll see him — 

Duchess. Receive him here, why not? 
There's no reason why you should go running 
after your foresters, tired as you are ! 

Duke. I'm not tired! Very well, then! 
[7*0 the servant, annoyed.] Let him come in 
here — [^The servant goes out.] 

Robert. Wasn't Nicolas with you to- 
day? 

Duke \^emh arras sed]. No, he was not. 

Robert. You'll see : he's had plenty of boars 
in his section of the forest all day, and he'll want 
orders for to-morrow. 

Duke. To-morrow is your consultation, you 
know. I shan't go out. 

Duchess. We have already had the consul- 
tation : this evening. 

Duke. What, without letting us know — ? 

Duchess. Doctor Jaubert telegraphed that 
he would have to come one day earlier on ac- 
count of an official ceremony at which he has to 
speak to-morrow. Because of the storms this side 
of Sedan, the telegram was delayed. The doc- 

i8 



THE FOSSILS 



tors came quite unexpectedly, you see. We were 
all so surprised! 

Duke. Well, what did they have to say? 
How was he? 

Duchess [with a gesture of despair']. Not 
very well! 

Duke. Ah—! 

Robert. Not at all well. Father: you and I 
won't kill many more boars together. 

Duke [sadly]. What did they advise? 

Duchess. Go south as soon as possible. 

Duke. South, where? Pau? Nice? — 

Duchess. Nice. 

[Enter Nicolas. He stands in the doorway 
at the back, hat in hand.] 

Nicolas. It's me, Monsieur le due — 

Robert. Good evening, Nicolas, any boars? 

Nicolas [coming down stage a little]. No, 
Monsieur Robert, I've come here on business. 

Robert. Great hunting weather, isn't it, 
Nicolas? 

Nicolas [shaking his head in affirmation]. 
Fine, Monsieur Robert. Snow's falling in sheets! 
If this keeps up, we can't take a dog out, or even 
a beater ! 

Robert. Seems there's a good many boars 
about this year, eh? 

Nicolas. Oh, quite a few; nothing to com- 
plain of. We had five wolves yesterday at Bois 
Brule. 

Robert. They w^ere howling all night at the 
end of the pond. I heard them from my bed. 
[His eyes glistening.] Five of them! [With a 
sigh.] Well, that's all over for me, Nicolas — 

19 



FOUR PLAYS 



Nicolas. Ah, Monsieur Robert, your health 
isn't — ? 

Robert [with a bitter laugh']. Ha! Hal 
My health was never better ! 

Duchess [putting her arm around his neck]. 
Come, son, it's nearly time for dinner; let's not 
keep your father. He must have a terrific appe- 
tite. Good evening, Nicolas. 

Nicolas. Good evening, Madame la du- 
chesse. Hope you're better soon. Monsieur Rob- 
ert! 

[Robert thanks him with a nod, and goes out 
with his mother.] 

Duke [standing with his back to the fire]. 
Have you just come from town? 

Nicolas. This instant, Monsieur le due. 

Duke. Have you seen Mademoiselle Va- 
trin? 

Nicolas. Yes, Monsieur le due: I'm afraid 
Monsieur won't like it! 

Duke. Come, out with it ! Did she read my 
letter ? 

Nicolas. Yes, of course, but — 

Duke. Well? What then? 

Nicolas. This : I went as Monsieur told me, 
to the Hotel du Cheval-Blanc — 

Duke. With your wife? 

Nicolas. Naturally, because Monsieur ex- 
plained that we were to take the child .from 
Mademoiselle Vatrin and keep it with us. — 
Well, my wife was mighty cold traveling all day 
in this weather — you see, it was only three weeks 
since she had a baby, and she's still a little weak 
— Well, I says to her, " What's the matter with 

20 



THE FOSSILS 



you? It's for Monsieur le due, and his son; can't 
spare any pains ! " — 

Duke. Yes, and was Mademoiselle Vatrin 
waiting for you? 

Nicolas. That's it. She just got off the train 
from Paris not a quarter of an hour ago — the 
snow'd blocked all the trains. You ought to've 
seen that baby ! Lord, he was hungry — like a lit- 
tle dog at his soup, when my wife came, begging 
Monsieur's pardon — 

Duke. Then he's with you now — is he well? 

Nicolas. Ah, Monsieur can be sure of that I 
Just now by the fireplace I left him grinning at 
my wife. 

Duke. Then what are you talking about, 
saying things aren't going well? It seems to me 
that everything is perfect? 

Nicolas. Everything's all right for the 
youngster, but the mother, that's different! 
When I told her her room was ready, and says 
to her to tell us a few days ahead when she was 
coming, so as to have time to get things ready, 
she answered — well, you ought to have heard 
her ! — she didn't want the room ; she wasn't 
coming more than two or three times a year, and 
stay for an hour or so just to see the baby, and 
she'd come when she liked, without letting us 
know ahead of time. You could have knocked 
me over with a feather to hear her talk the way 
she did; 'specially as Monsieur le due had the 
idea she was going to stay four or five days each 
time. So I says to her, " Wait a minute ! Per- 
haps Mademoiselle doesn't remember that the 
house is in the middle of the wood, no one hardly 

21 



FOUR PLAYS 



ever comes here, and you could live here all year 
and be safe. If my wife and I don't go around 
telling tales, the squirrels'U be the only ones to 
know the secret! " And she says to me, "I re- 
member the house. I've been there often 
enough, on my walks — the air is good for my 
son — I don't know what you mean by the 
rest — " That's what she said, Monsieur le due. 
— I think she's leading you a merry chases as 
they say. I don't think that's nice of her, a bit. 
I don't think either that things are going the way 
Monsieur le due wanted 'em to go, about her room 
and all that. 

Duke. Did she send a letter? 

Nicolas. No. Only she said she was going 
back to Paris to-night. 

Duke. Very well — I'll arrange to come 
and see you to-morrow. [As Nicolas is about to 
go the Duke intercepts him.~\ Tell me, he's 
good-looking — the youngster ? 

Nicolas. Oh, yes! Should have heard my 
wife when she was undressing him — fine set- 
up ! — Not a thing the matter with him — ! 

Duke [smiling]. And his face? 

Nicolas [laughing]. His face! Oh, If I 
dared talk about that to Monsieur le due, but if 
Monsieur begins — ! Well, Monsieur, I'd like 
to see Monsieur put his face next to the young- 
ster's. People'll see the resemblance right off — 

Duke [in a revery]. Take good care of him! 
Good evening ! 

Nicolas goes out.] 
Enter the Duchess.] 

;3uke. So he's worse? 

22 



THE FOSSILS 



Duchess [^oes to the Duke, and takes his 
hand with great feeling^. Worse than we imag- 
ine, dear! 

Duke [^with concentrated rage~\. Are we go- 
ing to stand by with folded arms? Can't we do 
something? There are plenty of new remedies 
— some of them kill at once, but there are some 
that are absolutely miraculous ! 

Duchess. Nothing short of a miracle can 
save Robert — his lungs are all eaten away ! 

Duke. The last of the Chantemelles I The 
end of the family 1 

Duchess [in despair^, Henri! 

Duke. You know how I take those things 
to heart! Others don't attach so much impor- 
tance to them ! But that makes no difference to 
me ! Let me mourn for our whole race in my 
only son — my son ! 

Duchess. I can think only of him — poor 
child! It wasn't so very long ago that he was 
running about the park in short trousers. I re- 
member how he used to come in with his burning 
red cheeks, and his legs scratched by the thistles — 
[She sobs.^ So upright, and noble, and proud! 

Duke. He is a worthy close to our glorious 
line: Robert de Chantemelle! He is the last of 
us ! The line will be dead ! [He accents this 
last word in so strange a manner, that the Du- 
chess quivers. They exchange glances, ~\ 

Duchess. Dead! [A pause.] Henri, why 
do you look at me that way? Do you know — 
something? 

Duke. Something? What, Anne? What 
are you alluding to? 

23 



FOUR PLAYS 



Duchess. I? I alluded to nothing, it was 
you — Robert hasn't the slightest suspicion that 
you know his secret — 

Duke [angrily]. I don't know anything about 
it. Speak, tell me whether he has been saying 
anything ! 

Duchess. Robert has a son. 

Duke. What are you — ? Robert, a son! 

— And the mother — ? 
Duchess. Helene Vatrin — 

Duke. Do you mean — ? Are you sure? 

Duchess. Robert told me so just now. 

Duke \_his eyes flashing, his fists clenched, 
crosses to the other side of the stage'\. The 
damned prostitute ! And Robert! Damned — ! 
If he wasn't already half dead, I'd — 

Duchess [^terror-stricken, throws herself 
into the Duke's arms, and prevents his going to 
find Robert], Henri! Henri! It's horrible! 
Henri, you're not yourself! 

Duke. Beautiful goings-on in this house ! 
They were very, very lucky I didn't discover 
them — ! 

Duchess. Henri, for Heaven's sake, be calm 

— a scene with Robert would kill him ! 

Duke. I'll spare him, but her — ! She's a — 
a — 

Duchess. She? A poor inexperienced 
young girl we exposed to danger, little thinking — 
We left her free all day long with a young man 
about — it was perfect folly! When I think — ! 
I thought I was doing her a favor, and I was the 
cause of her ruin — 

Duke. Damned women, with their sensitive- 
24 



THE FOSSILS 



ness ! No, of course, you find her very interest- 
ing! — You don't seem to remember that Rob- 
ert was with her at the very time the doctors or- 
dered him to be most careful ! We wondered why 
he — Your dear little protegee ! 

Duchess. Henri, I refuse to argue about it, 
unless you talk more calmly. You are entirely un- 
just. Helene came to us a pure girl; if she leaves 
ruined, whose fault is it? It's not at all gener- 
ous of you to treat her the way you do, in order to 
escape all the responsibility ! 

Duke [after a pause']. Very well! There was 
something inevitable in it all ! Of course, she may 
have some excuse — those long walks with Robert 
' — we must have been blind ! 

Duchess. We must have. — We owe some- 
thing to her now. 

Duke [scowling]. What? 

Duchess. If not to her, to Robert's son; you 
don't intend to abandon him, do you ? 

Duke [pensively]. Robert's son! 

Duchess. It is no more than just that we 
should look after him. 

Duke. Of course! His son — his — where 
is he? 

Duchess. With his mother, doubtless, in 
Paris. 

Duke [considering, half-smiling]. In 
Paris— Don't you feel as if you'd like to — 
kiss him? Good Lord, he's Robert's son, after 
all! 

Duchess. You are very good at bottom, dear ! 
Now I am ready to tell you of the promise Robert 
induced me make to him. He wants to see Hel- 

25 



FOUR PLAYS 



ene once more before he dies ! I consented, be- 
cause I was sure you would let him — [Gesture 
from the Duke.'] Will you? 

Duke [quickly']. Very well, very well, it's not 
a matter of great importance — [He walks about 
the room.] Let her come — she may stay as long 
as she likes, or go, or hang herself, for all I care ! 
I'm interested in the child ! [Standing before his 
wife, his arms crossed.] Then Robert is not the 
last of the Chantemelles ! 

Duchess. You admit that the other — ? 

Duke. Whether I admit it or not, he is ! 

Duchess. You forget, the mother — 

Duke. Nothing! But now I come to think 
about it, she's not so bad; the fact that she — 

Duchess. She might cause us a great deal of 
trouble if she tried to force Robert to marry her — 
but luckily, she is not thinking of doing that. My 
talk with Robert led me to believe that she is really 
quite sensitive on the point. Then Robert 
wouldn't think of marrying her. 

Duke [bruskly]. He might consider it, 
though — 

Duchess [surprised]. What? 

Duke. Does this marriage seem something to 
be avoided at any cost? 

Duchess. Henri, you frighten me. Five 
minutes ago, you were fearfully angry — you were 
terrible — now you are joking! This is not the 
time for that ! 

Duke. I was angry five minutes ago, but what 
leads you to suppose I am not now? At least, I 
am not joking. 

Duchess. Then you are serious? It's ridic- 
26 



THE FOSSILS 



ulous ! I admit, Helena is a nice, intelligent, pre- 
sentable girl — 

Duke [breaking forth']. Still she's only 
Helene, with all her niceness, and intelligence — 
I don't care about that! She has made you a 
grandmother; keep that in mind, and then agree 
with me that we ought to marry them. 

Duchess. Ought to — ! 

Duke. For the sake of the child ! To make 
him legally what he really is : a Chantemelle ! 

Duchess. Henri, don't do it! Think of 
Mademoiselle Vatrin as Claire's sister ! Oh, no ! 

Duke. It's not pleasant to think about — by 
any means ! — But what can we do ? We shall 
both suffer, you and I — I more than you. I have 
always wanted a grandson — and now I've found 
him, I take him — 

Duchess. Pick him up! Find him!! 

Duke \_getting angry]. That's enough! I 
want to — and when I say " I want," I'm deter- 
mined to have — ! 

Duchess. My wishes never had very much in- 
fluence with you — / always wanted to live some- 
where else ! If you had consented to leave 
your woods and live for part of the year in Paris, 
Claire might have gone into society, chosen a hus- 
band, and not have been exposed to all this — ! 
Mademoiselle Vatrin would never have set foot 
In the house, and Robert, instead of burying him- 
self in the country and brooding over the past, 
would probably have married, and you wouldn't 
have been forced to pick up a grandson off the 
streets — 

Duke. Charming! I am to blame for every- 
27 



FOUR PLAYS 



thing! I'm to blame for Robert's sickness! 
Well, if my will has been the cause of evil, it's now 
about to make reparation: Robert will marry 
Mademoiselle Vatrin, take that as final. I'm not 
going to allow any woman to influence me in a mat- 
ter of this kind! 

Duchess. Luckily Robert has a will of his 
own. He sees this matter in the same light as I 
do, and you can't domineer over him as you can 
me: he's a man! 

Duke. He will consent. 

Duchess. No ! 

Duke. Here he is; let him decide. 

[Enter Robert.] 

Duke [approaching him, his hands folded be- 
hind his back]. Ah, you gay young bird! 

Robert [astonished]. Father! 

Duke [good-humoredly]. I hear fine news 
about you ! A great surprise for your old father 
[With a slight menace in his words.] who ought to 
shoot you — 

Duchess. Henri ! 

Duke. But I shan't! I have something 
else to consider now. [Seriously.] You have a 
son. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for 
perpetuating the family line, just at the moment 
when it seemed about to end. Your son ! I claim 
him in order that our name shall survive : I am old 
and you are — not well. At the same time, I shall 
ask you to make a sacrifice — a big sacrifice, for 
I know your — what people call — prejudice. 

Robert. You want me to marry Helene? I 
thought of that when I used to plan how to per- 
petuate the family name — 

28 



THE FOSSILS 



Duke. Well? 

Robert. Well, I love Helene — 

Duke [fiercely]. I don't see how that detail 
makes It more difficult! 

Robert. It does. You treat this marriage as 
a business transaction. Now, in considering your 
proposal, I am thinking of the future of the woman 
I love. Can you imagine her between Mother 
and Claire ? — The day she feels she is not abso- 
lutely an equal among you, I shall take her away. 

Duke. Your wife will be an equal ! 

Robert. I am ready to marry her. I don't 
think I owe you any thanks — my happiness has 
nothing to do with this. We all want only one 
thing — 

Duchess. Not I, Robert! Your father 
spoke of sacrifice ; well, the real sacrifice will be for 
Claire and me. 

Duke [with hauteur}. You have no idea 
what you are talking of! 

Duchess. You are both against me! I con- 
sent, then, but let us say nothing more this evening. 
— My daughter's companion her equal ! Oh, no ! 
Ihadn't thought of that! 

[She goes out in high indignation.} 

Robert. I'll follow her and give her to un- 
derstand that there's nothing selfish in what I am 
doing — 

Duke. Go, and don't let her say anything to 
Claire; we shall let her know at the last minute — 
Two women in high dudgeon together — ! 

Robert [smiling']. Ah, I should think so! 
[He goes out.] 

Duke [following him with his eyes]. If he 
29 



FOUR PLAYS 



only knew ! Well, he would kill me, but he would 
think all the same that I govern my house with ad- 
mirable foresight. And to think of that little 
fellow, how quickly, how completely he has 
changed the fate of this family ! A crime ? Per- 
haps ! We must not do things by halves, and the 
old must help as well as the young ! What differ- 
ence whose is the child? Our blood runs in his 
veins, and I can ask no more ! 



[Curtain.] 



30 



ACT II 

[^Same scene as in the first act. Through the 
windows are seen a winter landscape, with a 
bright sun shining upon it, a French garden cov- 
ered with snow, straight paths bordered by 
dark evergreens, the branches of which are dot- 
ted with tufts of snow. The statues are en- 
cased in a thin crust of ice; the water in the 
borsin of the fountain is frozen, but the fountain 
itself is running. Icicles cling to the sides of 
the spout. In the distance is the forest tinged 
with frost and snow, and glistening in the sun. 

As the curtain rises, Robert is alone, waiting 
near a window. He is carefully dressed, and 
wears a flower. There is nothing indicative of 
the negligent patient in his appearance. After 
a few moments Claire enters, goes straight to 
her brother, controlling her feelings, which are 
apparently very turbulent. ^^ 

Claire. Robert, I know whom you are wait- 
ing for: Mother has just been to my room — 
now I see why you have been so mysterious these 
past two days! To think that you are going to 
marry Helene ! Oh, Robert ! 

Robert. Did Mother tell you why I am doing 
so? 

Claire. Of course ! But to tell me that, after 
I had Helene sent away! Poor Mother! She 

31 



FOUR PLAYS 



murmured something about your loving that 
woman, that they would consent to let you marry 
her — then she burst out crying and went away. I 
did not follow her to get further details. Robert, 
I used to have great respect for you, for your 
strength of character; you can have no Idea how 
hurt 1 am to hear this ! 

Robert. My dear little Claire, Helene will be 
here in a quarter of an hour — perhaps sooner: a 
sleigh travels quickly In this weather — I'm not 
very strong — let me be In peace until she comes; 
she mustn't find me stretched out on the sofa, 
gasping for breath. That's what will happen if 
I am the least bit over-excited. 

Claire. You can't get rid of me so easily as 
that ! I should be a very poor sister If I allowed 
you to do what you wish, merely to avoid giving 
you a little pain. You are not going to marry 
Helene ! 

Robert. But Father wishes me to ! 

Claire \_with horror^. He does! He must 
be a fool! Give me a reason, at least! I defy 
you. Father especially! I see I can wait for my 
reasons ! Do you know why Father wants you to ? 
Do you? 

Robert. Do yoiif 

Claire [in a choked voice~\. Oh — I — what 
shall I say ? — 

Robert. Father wants me to marry because 
he cannot bear the idea of seeing me end the line 
of Chantemelle ! 

Claire [embarrassed, to herself]. It's only a 
pretense! [To Robert.] Couldn't you just as 
well marry someone else ? 

32 



THE FOSSILS 



Robert. I love her! 

Claire. Poor Robert! 

Robert. And she loves me ! Otherwise, she 
would never think of marrying me ! 

Claire. She hasn't a sou, she has no — 
scruples — 

Robert. You are very unjust — and besides, 
It's useless to try to persuade me. Even if Helene 
did deserve a little of what you hold against her, 
I should marry her all the same. It happens that 
the sacrifice is pleasant to me. That is all ! 

Claire. A sacrifice for the sake of the family? 

Robert. Yes, yoii should be able to under- 
stand that ! 

Claire. Every one has his own ideas about 
family pride. 

Robert. Oh! 

Claire. Our families ! See how well they are 
treated nowadays ! To have conquered provinces 
for the country, to have governed them for cen- 
turies, and then to lose every bit of influence — 
why, Father can't even elect himself mayor of the 
town here ! How humiliating ! And what you 
must have suffered not to have been able to work 
for the glory of your land ! How I pity you, when 
I see you so inconsolable ! And now you marry 
Helene Vatrin in order to transmit to your chil- 
dren the creeds and ideas of us mummies ! 

Robert \^crying out^. Claire! Give me at 
least the credit of believing that in the face of death 
I know what I'm doing ! I firmly believe that in 
spite of this inferior alliance, our family is worth 
perpetuating. This Duke de Chantemelle is noth- 
ing: ambassador, minister, prefect — nothing. I 

33 



FOUR PLAYS 



am going to marry Helene because I am positive 
that the country would otherwise lose a living and 
valuable force — if the Dukes of Chantemelle dis- 
appeared from the face of the earth — 

Claire [ironically']. I should not be at all 
surprised if you had made that discovery since 
you fell in love with Helene ! 

Robert. It makes no difference if I did, so 
long as it is true. 

Claire [ironically]. Are we really of some 
use? 

Robert. Yes, because we are well-born. 
Moral heredity is an incontestable fact. Cen- 
turies of military bravery, intellectual culture, re- 
finement, ought surely to produce the very best 
sort of men and women. Nobility is not a preju- 
dice: the aristocracy is a museum of all that is 
best in chivalry ! 

Claire [bitterly], A museum as isolated as a 
hospital ! 

Robert. That spreads the contagion of devo- 
tion! Disinterested science, for example, the sort 
that has nothing to do with dividends, exists only 
among the aristocrats. In the United States, there 
are wonderful inventors, but they have only one 
end in view : to get as much money as possible ! 
We must look to Europe, with its atmosphere of 
the old aristocracy, to see great geniuses devoting 
their lives to the good of humanity ! And to think 
that the crude and simple chivalry of the Middle 
Age was all the time preparing for the glorious 
poverty of the great thinkers of to-day ! Granted 
even that this is an exaggeration, the whole idea is 
at least compatible with modern life. Do we 

34 



THE FOSSILS 



amount to nothing then in the France of to-day? 
No, if we are forgotten and neglected and de- 
spised, we at least repay ingratitude by showing the 
true spirit of resignation! 

Claire [inspired by Robertas words^. How 
true! How splendid! We ^r^ something! The 
poor live only because of us; we are not useful in 
politics, but we know how to console those who 
deny our very existence ! When the Fatherland is 
in trouble, there is no question about the nobility 
— those little marquis' who know nothing except 
how to hunt and dance! Robert, you are right, 
we still have a part to play ! 

Robert. Forgive me then for wanting to live ! 
Not myself, but in my race ! 

Claire. You have taught me what we owe to 
the race, to our family. I was born in a hunting- 
lodge. How often have you argued with me, 
gently, never annoyed with me, about the breeding 
of your dogs and horses: you ought at least then 
to have the same respect for your family! You 
should want to live as you say you do, in your son, 
but you must live too for your own sake : for the 
sake of this body of yours, worn out by discourage- 
ment. You need the strength and the will to be 
useful even now ! Let me receive Helene first. 
Don't worry, I know exactly what to say to her ! 
Ten minutes later, she will be gone, for ever. 
Then we'll save you. 

Robert. Why do you say you will save me? 
I have only one hope, but not what you think. In 
my future there is a tiny ray of brightness — a 
single ray ! Tell me, what if our long empty hall- 
ways resounded with the cry of a child, wouldn't 

35 



FOUR PLAYS 



you be happy? I am, even to think of it! Tell 
me, doesn't your instinct — ? 

Claire [seriously']. I did not come here to 
talk about instinct! I know whom to speak to 
now; I'm wasting my breath here ! 

[Enter the Duke and Duchess.'] 

Duke [to Robert and Claire]. A little tiff? 

Robert [to the Duke]. She is giving me 
some plain advice about my marriage; I am not at 
all satisfied with her attitude. Mother must have 
told her everything. She just now refused to dis- 
cuss the matter further with me. She intends to 
talk with you. Tell her that in marrying Helene 
I am acting according to your wishes. [Claire 
listens in terror.] Mother, stay with me : I want 
Helene to see the expression on my face when she 
comes: the fagade of the House of Chantemelle 
must present a cheerful appearance. 

Duchess [while Robert goes to the window]. 
I am so glad to see him happy ! 

[She joins Robert, and both watch for Helene.] 

Duke [to Claire]. What Robert says is true: 
he is going to marry because I want him to. 

Claire [in an undertone]. This is more hor- 
rible than I had ever imagined! 

Duke. What's the trouble? 

Claire [indicating Robert]. I shan't tell you 
here : come to my room ! You will take pity on 
him, or me — 

Duke. Go to your room, I will follow you in 
a moment. 

Claire. This is my last word: before this 
evening, one of us will have sent Mademoiselle 
Vatrin out of the house; I hope it will be you! 

36 



THE FOSSILS 



[She goes out, leaving the Duke petrified. 
First he goes to the fireplace, then returns to 
follow Claire, then hesitates, looking to- 
ward his wife and son, Robert calls to him.] 

Robert. Listen! The bells! It's she! 

[The sound of approaching sleigh-bells is heard 
outside.] 

Duke [going to the window], I do hear — 
yes — 

Robert [his face close to the window]. Why 
can't we see ? There is nothing so far as the eye 
can reach across the snow. 

Duke. She is coming from the wood — you'll 
see her turn when she comes around by the 
stables — 

Robert. Why the wood? It's much longer 
that way ? 

Duke. I wanted to give you a little surprise, 
a present for not having written to her, and for 
allowing your parents to inform her of the state 
of affairs ! She is coming from, the forester's cot- 
tage, where she has left the child with Nicolas' 
wife, who has just recently had a child — she is 
going to nurse the little fellow. Nicolas and 
his wife are splendid people and can keep the 
secret — 

Robert [interrupting]. It was very good of 
you ! I'm going to see him — 

Duke [intercepts him]. Do me the favor of 
coming with your mother into the billiard-room 
— wait until I call you. As head of the family 
I wish to be the first to receive Mademoiselle 
Vatrin: she is not yet aware that she is to be your 
wife. You might appear a little too happy in 

37 



FOUR PLAYS 



telling her about It; I shall tell her In quite an- 
other manner. Her coming here shall not be a 
triumphal entry; I am afraid she doesn't yet feel 
the enormous responsibility that goes with our 
name, which she will assume so easily. Let me, 
at the very door of this house, explain what will 
be expected of her. Then, Robert, she is yours ! 
— Go now — 

\_Rohert and his mother go out. The Duke 
looks out of the window an instant, then 
comes hack to meet Helene. 
Helene, dressed in a simple traveling suit, enters. 
She is pretty, but now appears timid and sad. 
Seeing the Duke, she is about to faint; quiver- 
ing with emotion, she leans against the door. 
After a pause, the Duke turns to her.~\ 
T)UKE [dryly]. Come here ! [She approaches 
him, very much afraid.] Yes, it's I! Are you 
surprised? The child's nurse just told you I had 
gone away; well, she did as she was told. I 
wanted to encourage you to come. You see, the 
Duchess wrote you that Robert was very ill, and 
authorized you to come — not a word from the 
Duke — Robert, too, wanted to write, but I did 
not let him. Now I have a piece of news to an- 
nounce — Sit down! You're trembling — I'm 
not angry with you I You don't know what I am 
going to tell you ! 

Helene [wringing her hands; in a feeble 
choked voice]. Oh, please! I was weak enough 
to be your mistress almost as soon as I came here. 
I was only twenty-two, I knew nothing. Monsieur 
Robert was away then in Palestine; when he came 
back I fell in love with him — and he knew it ! 

38 



THE FOSSILS 



[She hides her face.'] Don't despise me ! I love 
him as deeply as a woman can love a man! His 
love is the only thing that sustained me — I didn't 
have the strength to leave you ! For two years I 
lived a terrible life — I never saw you that I 
didn't make up my mind to stop everything — 
with you, I didn't dare ! I waited and waited, too 
afraid to do anything! Then the baby came, and 
I had to depend on you. But once I was away, I 
wasn't afraid of you, and when the forester's wife 
asked me to stay sometimes with her I had the 
strength to refuse ! You see, I have a little cour- 
age left — 

Duke [brutally]. What are you talking 
about? What has Robert's mistress to do with 
Robert's father? Get rid of that idea! Robert 
is madly in love with you ! Marry him ! 

Helene [terror-stricken]. I? Marry Rob- 
ert?! 

Duke. You must. I want an heir to carry on 
my name; now I have one ! I don't care by what 
means, but I have one ! Never mind who or what 
you are ! You are that heir's mother ! You love 
my son, don't you? You wrote me a letter that 
was rather touching some time ago, before the 
child was born, and told me to take care of him in 
case you died. There was nothing unreasonable 
in that — of course we should look after the little 
one. Now we want to make a duke of him — 
give him our name, our fortune, everything! 

Helene. There's not only my son to think 
about, but Robert! He is your son, Ro'bert! 
Do you love him? And yet you talk of this mar- 



riage ! 



39 



FOUR PLAYS 



Duke. Robert is my son, but the other is 
something to me also. Fate demands that I sac- 
rifice one of them. One is young and full of hope, 
the other we are already mourning — why should 
I hesitate between the two ? Furthermore, I have 
promised that Robert shall marry you — refuse 
him now! Can't you see, he will ask you ques- 
tions; what will you tell him if he learns the truth? 
Come now, everything is to your advantage : an 
honorable name for yourself, a title for your son 
— Robert's son. That little mite is everything! 
I am willing to kill for his sake, if necessary! 
Give him to us, for always, irrevocably ! Is it a 
bargain? Don't answer yet! You can't answer! 
Tell Robert ! Meantime, you're in great danger. 
Somehow, I can't imagine how, Claire has discov- 
ered everything. She is opposed to all this. If 
she says anything, the marriage cannot take place ! 
Robert would be broken-hearted, demand an ex- 
planation, and I — ■ Well, what could I an- 
swer — ? 

Helene. Then why did I come? 

Duke. Claire doesn't know yet that there is a 
child. She is more concerned with our traditions, 
our long family line, than any of us, and perhaps 
she will feel as deeply as I do about perpetuating 
the name. I shall go and see her now, and in five 
minutes everything will be arranged. 

[He goes out by the down-stage door. Enter 
Claire at the back, left. She stops on seeing 
Helene.^ 

Claire. My father Is looking for me. Isn't 
he? \_Helene makes a vague gesture.'] Made- 

40 



THE FOSSILS 



molselle, I am glad to have an opportunity of talk- 
ing with you alone; as we have only a few mo- 
ments, I shall go straight to the point ! Robert is 
not going to marry you — 

Helene. I don't ask anything — I want to do 
what will be best for Robert ! 

Claire. To save him from disgrace Is best 
for Robert ! I know who you are : one evening 
last summer I was walking by the pond — you 
were with Father in the boat, and neither of you 
was any too careful — I was out all that night, a 
few feet from you — once I was on the point of 
asking for a place in the boat — I heard things 
that made my blood run cold. In one second my 
purity of mind was gone, my respect and affection 
were killed ! That episode has blackened my life. 
I had you sent away, but I felt just the same as be- 
fore — the same torture. And now you have 
come back to poison my life again! Your plan 
will fail this time: I am going to tell Robert 
everything ! 

Helene. And kill him ! 

Claire. He will thank me for sparing him a 
few days of life in a world where God allows such 
things to happen ! 

[Enter the Duke. He takes in the situation 
at a glance. He comes and stands between 
them.^ 

Duke [with severity']. Claire, who asked you 
to come? You ought to have waited until I saw 
you! 

Claire. I changed my mind. I couldn't think 
clearly then about what you had determined to do. 

41 



FOUR PLAYS 



Even after I considered it, I couldn't understand. 
I have now given up trying to persuade: I am 
threatening! 

DuK.E [violently']. Keep still! 

Claire. Nothing can make me keep still — 
my conscience — 

Duke [with blind fiery]. Keep still, I tell you ! ! 
Never mind about your conscience! There are 
certain things a daughter doesn't say to her father! 
If you forget yourself again you'll end your days 
in a convent, or else I'll turn you out of the 
house — 

Claire. I'd rather end my days in a convent, 
or walk the streets, than breathe this atmosphere 
of disgrace and shame — ! 

Helene. Monsieur le due, I ought to leave ; I 
am willing not to see Robert, to be sent away — 
I am willing — Only let Mademoiselle spare her 
brother, and help you explain to him why I am 
leaving. 

Duke [after a momenfs reflection, to Helene, 
sympathetically]. Let me have a word with her 
in private ! [Helene nods. He conducts her to 
the down-stage door, and sees her out. He then 
returns to Claire.] Claire, I give in. For the 
first time, you have called my authority into ques- 
tion! You have your weapons, you can prevent 
me from doing what I want to do. I shan't argue 
further. Only know this: from now on there is 
no intimacy between us ! 

Claire. I expect to be unhappy. With my 
courage — 

Duke. That is your affair. You may as well 
know what this blow will mean to Robert ! Yes, 

42 



THE FOSSILS 



and to all of us ! It is not hard to accuse your 
father, and tell him how disgusted you are; you're 
hardly more than a little boarding-school miss — 
your mother was unwise enough to tell you every- 
thing, a child of your age ! I am now talking to 
you as I would to a judge, a righter of wrongs: 
I have nothing to hide from you. Robert has a 
son by Mademoiselle Vatrin. 

Claire [to herself]. He! A Son?! 

Duke. Whom we have decided to adopt, 
make one of the family, in order not to let the 
line die out. If the child had not lived, Robert 
would think nothing more about the mother — 
he would not marry her. For myself, I am open- 
ing this house to a woman who bears in her 
arms a sacred gift; I use the word " sacred" ad- 
visedly. I want you to weigh the matter care- 
fully. You blamed Robert for being selfish in 
the face of death, and you blamed me because I 
was sacrificing him to I don't know what mon- 
strosities. Every word of that is false. Robert 
is sacrificed, and so am I, but I haven't the right 
to consider that for a moment. Both of us are 
sacrificed, thank God! to an ideal, an ideal which 
you are as anxious as we to preserve as best we 
can! 

Claire. A son ! ! Poor Robert ! His eyes 
were filled with tears when he told me how splen- 
did it would be to have the empty corridors filled 
with the voices of children ! And to think I was 
ignoble enough to appear dissatisfied with him! 
And the brutal way I answered ! That is what 
he meant when he spoke of instinct! His love 
as a father ! I thought he meant something 

43 



FOUR PLAYS 



quite different! How could I have been so mis- 
taken ! Sometimes, at night, when I'm sitting by 
the fire, while the wind whistles outside, and the 
wolves howl just under the window, all at once 
clear ringing voices come to me and I wake up 
holding to my breast the end of a phantom — 
it is that same instinct — then it goes away — 
but it is always in Robert! Sometimes I almost 
go crazy. Now you tell me there is a child! It 
may be near at this moment! Papa, why are you 
looking at me that way? Is he in the house — 
now?! 

Duke. Almost: he is with Nicolas — go and 
see him — I could not resist the temptation — 

Claire. Can I? [Slowly.] Then it is no 
longer a dream, a vision! Then I am killing a 
real child, a child I could take in my arms, a 
child Robert adores, his own flesh and blood! 
Oh, if you had only heard him ! He wants his 
son to be perfect in everything, because a noble 
birth gives one moral superiority! Poor boy! 
He is forgetting the mother ! No, he is not for- 
getting her, he doesn't know! The mother! 
Ha, what is her heritage, what does she bring 
us? 

Duke. What are you talking about? Most 
of our ancestors were statesmen and celebrated 
generals; I once dreamed of being great, like 
them — but I've had to pass my life doing noth- 
ing. I have tried to forget myself in hunting! 
There is nothing like country life to soothe 
wounded pride ! During the war, I was no 
longer a young man, so that I had to enhst as 
a simple soldier or else stay home by my own 

44 



THE FOSSILS 



fire-side. I enlisted, looking for great deeds to 
do and a glorious death; I came home diseased 
and defeated. I had added nothing to the honor 
of our name. Now, for God's sake, don't let the 
line die out! We can still work for the glory 
of our country, the glory that has been handed 
down to us, until one day a Chantemelle, more in- 
telligent or more fortunate, shall arise and do 
honor to us ! Don't you feel that basic desire to 
live, to make some place in the world, to exist 
afterwards — in others ? 

Claire [overcome]. Oh, Papa! with all 
my soul ! 

Duke. No, you don't! Otherwise you would 
have pitied me! Robert and I cannot last much 
longer. Don't, don't take these visions of the 
future from us ! 

Claire. You think I am indifferent! I have 
devoted myself, given up my life because of 
these terrible agonies I have been going through ! 
[Bowing her head.] If you ask pity of me, you 
must in turn at least pity me ! If I am to become 
your — accomplice, I shall be in a terrible situa- 
tion — pity me ! 

Duke. You an accompHce? In what? You 
have only to say nothing! 

Claire. Isn't that terrible enough? Then I 
shall have been the cause of this marriage ! If 
I say a word, it will not take place ! 

Duke. If it does not take place you will be 
the executioner of the race ! 

Claire. That's what tortures me ! To put 
such responsibility on the shoulders of a young 
girl like me ! What will happen to us if I don't 

45 



FOUR PLAYS 



tell Robert? His child Is our glory, the center 
of all our ambitions, of our very life, everything! 
But can we forget the mother? That woman! 
Can't you see what a hell my life has been because 
of her? Can't you see how afraid of you all I 
have been? If she comes back, I shall never 
live in peace again ! Yet I am willing to submit, 
to be miserable, to bear the weight of shame and 
responsibility which I have no right to bear. I, 
the little boarding-school miss ! What hope have 
I? I wish I were dead! I wish I knew what 
to do ! ! 

Duke [solemnly'], Claire, I swear that you 
ought to do this: it Is your duty to obey the 
head of your family. Why have I educated you 
to look back to the glory of our house, If I now 
ask something unworthy of the past? For that 
reason, I beg you ! On my honor, on the honor 
of my son who Is about to die, I promise you 
that this marriage will save our name ! 

Claire. I believe you. 

Duke. Thank you, Claire ! 

Claire \_going to the door behind which 
Helene is waiting]. Come, Helene ! 

\_Enter Helene.] 

I accept a great responsibility: I shall never 
abandon the woman who is about to become Rob- 
ert's wife ! I cannot be expected to be a real 
friend — an affectionate friend — but I promise 
to be a devoted sister. When you are in trou- 
ble come to me. I offer you this in all loyalty, 
Helene ! 

Duke. Let us go to Robert — ! 

[He steps hack, allowing Helene and Claire 

46 



THE FOSSILS 



to pass him. Claire allows Helene to precede 
her out of the room. Helene gives evidence 
of extreme nervousness as the Duke and 
Claire look at her. 

The curtain falls only after the stage is 
empty and the door closed.] 



[Curtain.] 



47 



ACT III 

\^A villa in the neighborhood of Nice, sit- 
uated in the open country. The scene repre- 
sents a large room elegantly hut rather flashily 
furnished, the kind usually found in rented 
houses at seaside resorts. Doors to the right 
and left. At the hack, all the way across the 
stage is a large hay window, through which 
the sea appears sparkling under a brilliant sky. 
To the left, outside, a reef with the foam of 
waves breaking over it. 

Robert is alone, stretched out on a sofa. 
His legs are covered with a plaid blanket. He 
appears to be asleep. Enter Helene; she 
closes the door noiselessly and approaches the 
sofa on tip-toe. Robert opens his eyes and 
speaks to her without turning his head.^ 

Robert. Is that you, Helene? 

Helene [leaning over hi^n and kissing his fore- 
head^. Yes. Have you had a nice sleep? 

Robert. Couldn't close my eyes ! I tossed 
about, thinking, always thinking! That attack 
yesterday — If my mother hadn't happened to 
come in the moment I lost consciousness, I should 
have died — [Pressing his hand to his lips.^ 
There's always that taste of blood in my mouth ! 
The hemorrhage there, ready to choke me any 

48 



THE FOSSILS 



moment ! — What about this south that was go- 
ing to cure me? This famous south! 

Helene. We've been here hardly two weeks! 
It would be miraculous if already — 

Robert [interrupting her]. My poor girl, 
our marriage ! the first month Isn't over yet — \_A 
long pause, during which he holds her hand 
pressed to his lips.] Why didn't they bring 
Henri this morning? Where is he? 

Helene. In front of the house, playing in 
the sand. [Going toward the window.] Shall 
I call and have him brought in? 

Robert. Later! I have so many things to 
ask you to take care of! My parents are old, 
soon you will be the only one left. And you'll 
need help so badly. [With an effort.] And — 
dearest! It's impossible for me to conceive that 
your happiness no longer depends on me alone! 

Helene [gravely]. It is in your hands, Rob- 
ert. 

Robert. What do you mean? 

Helene. Listen: I should never have spoken 
of this unless you had begun. I should have 
preferred to be miserable till the last. But since 
you have opened the subject — Please, Robert, 
arrange matters so that If — If I have to lose you, 
I can go off with little Henri wherever I wish. I 
want a home of my own. 

Robert [rising]. Leave the family? Here I 
was deeply concerned because I was afraid you 
would be left alone, and now you ask to be ! 

Helene. Without you, do you think I could 
be anything else but alone? Among these peo- 
ple whom I am afraid of? Yes, afraid! Of the 

49 



FOUR PLAYS 



Duke especially! I should be completely at his 
mercy ! I don't even dare raise my voice against 
him now ! Help me ! They despise me ! 

Robert. I have never heard a word from 
them to cause my wife to be ashamed or humili- 
ated. I should never have allowed it! 

Helene. Not a word has been spoken! 
They are forced to treat me as an equal, and 
they do their duty ! They are heroically polite, 
so polite that when the slightest attention is paid 
me, I blush with shame ! 

Robert. You don't mean Claire? Claire is 
very good to you, isn't she? 

YiELENE [ironically]. Tome? Claire? 

Robert. Don't you think so? If it hadn't 
been for her, perhaps we should never have been 
married. Mother thought it her duty to raise 
every imaginable objection: but Claire made God 
knows what oath to her, and the objections dis- 
appeared. After the ceremony, do you remem- 
ber how she found occasion — awkwardly enough 
— to say that she knew of the existence of the 
child, and that he should not be kept from her 
any longer out of respect for her? What made 
my father decide to come ahead here and get 
this house for us? Who went with him? Who 
found this hidden retreat, where we can now en- 
joy peace with our son for a little while? I think 
we owe pretty nearly everything to Claire ! 

Helene. Do you think she has done all this 
for my sake? She swallowed her dislike for me 
for the sake of the baby, because that baby is 
the future of her family; she would make any sac- 
rifice for that! 

50 



THE FOSSILS 



Robert. Very noble of her! So much the 
worse for those who disparage her for doing 
it! The honor of mankind is in itself a small 
and insignificant handful of sacrifices, but it typi- 
fies all that is sublime. 

Helene [with dignity']. Very well, I can't 
see it in that light! I was born without your 
ideas, your delicacy of feeling about those things ! 
[Becoming excited.] But do they think I have 
no feelings at all ? They make me feel from morn- 
ing to night that I am an inferior being, and must 
be treated as such ! If I weren't a poor simple 
fool — ! I must stand it all because I love/ 

Robert [in consternation]. Helene! The 
idea ! To think you could imagine I was hurting 
you by what I said ! This only goes to show how 
easily you are offended! My parents don't feel 
that way about you ! 

Helene [iromV^//)']. You think so? 

Robert. Certainly. Why should Claire and 
I have different ideas from yours? Does our 
education, which you had no opportunity of hav- 
ing, make you an inferior creature? We all look 
into the heavens at night: the stars belong to 
every one ! You might at least humor me, and 
let me preserve the illusion that keeps me alive ! 
It is true, I am proud of my title ! They say 
that riches is merely accumulated labor; well, no- 
bility is merely accumulated honor. Helene, 
don't let me think that you despise the nobility: 
it is your first duty to educate our child to re- 
spect it. 

Helene. My dear, I shall do my full duty 
by the child, provided he remains my child, and 

51 



FOUR PLAYS 



not the child of a tyrannical and jealous clan! 
Believe me, O Robert! Could I talk so calmly 
of the time when you won't be with us any longer, 
if I didn't think I was standing at this moment 
before the very gates of hell ? ! Save me ! Don't 
let them drag me back with them to that dreary 
home, where sad-faced members of the House of 
Chantemelle live and look like antique armor ! I 
have loved you because you were the only one 
In that place who had a heart like mine ! It 
would break that heart, Robert, if — 

Robert. But why should I oppose my author- 
ity to theirs? Legally they have no rights over 
you ! They can't force you ! 

Helene. I haven't the courage to resist! If 
I went back to Chantemelle I should never leave ! 
If I wanted to go away, they would all combine 
against me, say I perjured myself, and then I 
should be humble and say nothing — Oh, it would 
be horrible! Save me from that, Robert! 

Robert. I am already sorry I made you my 
nurse ! I can't promise you your liberty after you 
are through with me ! I'll put it in my will that 
you shall live where you like, and I'll tell Claire 
about it. 

Helene [anxiously]. Why speak to her? 
She will never agree with you ! She will only op- 
pose you and make you worse ! Only promise to 
put that in your will: that will be enough. 

Robert. Claire is not used to my doing things 
without consulting her; I couldn't consent to 
separating you from the family without speak- 
ing to her and telling her my reasons for doing 
so. Don't worry, she may disagree with me as 

52 



THE FOSSILS 



much as she pleases, I shall not give in: you have 
my word for It! 

\^Enter Claire. She has been out-doors, and 
wears a walking-suit; under her arm is a 
card-hoard /?o.v.] 

Claire [taking off her gloves and hat^. The 
sun is blinding. I went to the customs office to 
sketch the reef, but the sea was a perfect blaze! 
I could hardly see a thing! 

Helene. What do you find so interesting 
about the reef? Haven't you already three draw- 
ings of it in your album? 

Claire. That stone pinnacle which seems to 
totter when the waves break over it fascinates me ! 
It's like a fisherman standing in the water. 

Robert. Or a shepherd guarding his sheep. 
— Look, the flock is jumping about now ! 

Claire [smiling]. Flock?! How common 
that word would have sounded over there while 
I was sketching! — I imagined — ! That boil- 
ing tide — why, even in the calmest weather it 
seems as if there were creatures beneath it forc- 
ing it up, in order to rise up to the sun — Sirens, 
maybe, who regret the times when they danced 
and gamboled on the beach ! I'm sure they used 
to live around my rock, those divine cruel crea- 
tures ! 

Robert [laughing]. Divine? Why? Because 
they brought poor unfortunate sailors and cabin- 
boys to their doom? 

Claire. I'm afraid so! Yet I think they 
weren't so dangerous as they are said to be ! 
You remember once how a certain warrior who 
was on a quest for some Golden Fleece or other, 

53 



FOUR PLAYS 



allowed himself to be charmed by their song — 
and did they make a meal of him? Of course 
not! They filled him full of good counsels, and 
conducted him to the island where he found the 
treasure he was looking for. Another time, 
among a number of shipwrecked wretches, was an 
old man who had embarked to go and preach 
the gospel of Christ Crucified to the savages; 
in the very teeth of the cannibal goddesses, he 
-made public profession of his faith, and over- 
came terrible opposition in the midst of the 
storm — the revelers ate no more that night ! 
The shining bodies and tresses of the Sirens, 
green with seaweed, triumphantly escorted the 
missionary to the shore whence he was going to 
drive the idol; then they — the Sirens — idols 
themselves, plunged back into the deep and ap- 
peared no more. 

Robert. What imagination! That must be 
champagne foam around your reef! The sea is 
positively going to your head! 

Claire. Make fun of me, that's right! If 
the sea makes me romantic, what do the forests 
do to you? When you come back to Chante- 
melle after a long trip, the first thing you do is 
run to the woods, all alone, dressed like a com- 
mon thief, — and at night to hear you tell what 
you found by all your dear old hedges — ! 

Robert. Oh, the woods of Chantemelle! 
How often have I wandered about them! I've 
never been really happy away from them! But 
that doesn't prevent my loving the sea! The 
woods and the sea have a great attraction for 
me. I have always liked to hunt, and it wasn't 

54 



THE FOSSILS 



the mere killing of animals that I enjoyed: there 
was something else. It was the thick under- 
brush, the unknown! I used to listen, tingling 
with joy, to the moaning of the wind, at first far- 
off, then rushing on, wave after wave — grandly, 
mysteriously — and all at once, the tops of the 
birches would begin to wave high over my head, 
and the pines and saplings would sway, and I was 
in the midst of the whirlwind! Then to hear the 
boars cracking the dry sticks, breaking through 
hedges — you'd think they were the fauns of old 
Greece ! Then the boar comes out into the open- 
ing, a big black thing, hair bristling, tail twisted 
up in a knot ! There is your faun ! And the 
light tread of the wolves over the dead leaves ! — 
Head lowered, ears alert, digging round some 
briar — he looks up, and then vanishes Heaven 
knows where. And then the lantern reflections 
of the foxes over the snow ! Oh, to think of all 
that now! 

Helene [seated a little distance from hinij 
and trying to attract attention to herself^. Yes, 
you prefer the forests to the sea ! 

Robert. I like both, but not in the same way. 
The aristocrat in me loves those old trees, as 
old as we are, that spread their protecting arms 
over the multitudes. Are we not the brothers 
of the pines and giant hemlocks? I never wan- 
der about among them without assuming their 
splendid attitude of arrogance. I soar high above 
the fields, drink in the light and the pure air and 
proudly scatter acorns and pine-nuts to the fam- 
ished countryside. — Here by the sea another be- 
ing awakes within me; the waves come in never- 

SS 



FOUR PLAYS 



ending procession and break on the beach, each 
decked out in diamonds by the sun — small in 
calm weather, gigantic in the storm. Then I say- 
to myself, " Here is a far different image of man- 
kind from what I get in the forests." The 
uniformity of those waves, bearing forever the 
burden of the fleets of the world, those waves that 
are doomed to eternal unrest — there is some- 
thing monotonous in all that, too monotonous for 
my forester's instinct! Then I wonder whether 
men can ever make their way through life like 
the waves, without jostling, wrangling, and hurt- 
ing one another. Then I am seized with fear: 
I am afraid that the wave of humanity, if all men 
are made equal, like the waves of the sea, will 
continue to rise up and up, mysteriously attracted 
from above ! — Here I am, part forester, part 
man of the sea — the trees and the hedges and the 
waves! 

Claire. Oh, Robert, how truly we are 
brother and sister! From birth we have been 
buried in the old chateau, discouraged because we 
had nothing to do, looking to the winds and the 
woods, the waves and the clouds to sing us the song 
of hfe. I never read much, but I have heard it 
said that everything nowadays is bad; yet these 
forces in nature paint for me the life of the past. 
You, you question them for the future — which of 
us is right? 

Robert [facing Claire]. I ! To speak of the 
future and to die to-morrow Is futile enough; 
but I have a son, and I live in agony wondering 
what his destiny will be. Poor little one, I fear 
I have given him a mournful heritage in taking 

56 



THE FOSSILS 



him into this family! Will he have a place of 
his own to breathe in and think, as I never had? 
No, I never had that, even at Chantemelle ! I 
have loved you all, but I was never able to talk 
with you without getting into a dispute — oh, that 
eternal wrangling! [Smiling.] I became a So- 
cialist to spite Father, a Freethinker to spite 
Mother, a Republican to spite you — and the 
whole thing ended in recriminations ! When I 
went to Paris to complete my studies, I was again 
wofully out of place : nearly all my fellow-students 
held radically different views from ours. / ought 
to have been able to get along with them — but 
I couldn't ! I was more dogmatic with them than 
Father is with us, more religious than Mother, 
more Royalist than you. There are declasses of 
high rank, as well as of low — I am one of the 
former. I am intellectually in sympathy with the 
present generation, but my heart is with the past ! 
Wherever I go, half of me is an exile. I must 
save my son from this torture ! 

Claire. Of course you must ! Fie will never 
be like you, who never dared be yourself except 
alone with your books, who were afraid that the 
living might perceive in you a radical, a revolu- 
tionist against the family ! He will keep up with 
his times, — I am even willing to bury my dislikes 
and become modern in order to be with him my- 
self. But you will not object, will you, to my 
keeping my old pride deep down in my heart? I 
shall explain to him later all your ideas about the 
nobility: the source of true chivalry! 

Robert. In the joy of being a father, I had 
hoped for that, and I finally brought you to 

57 



FOUR PLAYS 



think as I did. But these last few days I have 
been discouraged — I have to come down to earth 
again ! It may be that my sickness makes me be- 
lieve I foresee the downfall of all our family, 
while only / am dying. No matter! I'm only 
too glad not to have to explain to my son all the 
doubts that have arisen in me: that awful past 
that seems like a drag on our future ! I confide 
him to you, who are tall and dignified like the 
pines, healthy and clear-seeing! My son will 
have only to look about him to find the finest ex- 
amples of honor and bigness of spirit: Father is 
loyalty and probity incarnate, and you would never 
tell a lie even to save your life ! 

Claire \_agitated']. You may be sure of me:- 
I shall look after your son so well that not the 
shadow of a base thought can reach him. 

Helene \_goes to Robert, takes him aside, 
and speaks to him.'] Oh, Robert! To confide 
our son to the family before me, after your 
promise ! I thought I could trust you, Robert ! 

Robert \^aside to Helene]. Oh, I'm terribly 
sorry ! Forgive me, Helene ! You have my 
word, and you may depend upon it more than 
ever! 

Helene [shrugging her shoulders, as she goes 
to the window]. There, I hear him crying! 
[Looking out the window.] Oh, that nurse! — 
Talk ahead about your grand ideas. Mama is 
going to look after baby! 

[She takes a garden-hat from the rack and goes 
out.] 

Robert [going to Claire]. Claire, Claire, 
you speak about little Henri as if he had no 

58 



THE FOSSILS 



mother ! There, you see, she's the one who really 
takes care of him! 

Claire [smiling]. Robert, you are to blame! 
You tell us what you want done with the boy, and 
you always speak to me about it in his mother's 
presence. 

Robert. I didn't mean to do that. I was 
speaking to you both. But you are not kind to 
Helene. What's the matter? Helene has been 
telling me that after I'm gone it will be impos- 
sible for her to live with you. She means to set- 
tle where she will not be humiliated later on In 
the presence of her son. 

Claire [astonished]. She wants to take the 
child away? Did she say that? What did you 
say? 

Robert. I'm sorry, but I told her she was 
right. In my will, I shall make provision for her 
to live independently. 

Claire [at her wits' end]. Robert, don't do 
that ! 

Robert. I promised her. 

Claire. Don't do it ! 

Robert. Claire, I am as sorry as you are to 
have the child taken from the hereditary home; 
there are certain sacred things I should have liked 
him to grow up to feel; but you can't ex- 
pect a woman of Helene's age to remain buried 
alive for the rest of her life ! The moment she 
suffers from your contact, and says she does, I 
want her to be left free. Won't she be free any- 
way? I shall ask her, beg her, to stay at Chante- 
melle, but who can force her against her wishes? 
In a year's time, she might leave you, hating and 

59 



FOUR PLAYS 



despising you all — all you have to do is make 
her wish to be with you, by love, by affection. 

Claire. Whatever you do, leave us the child ! 
Listen to me: I tell you, this is a matter of the 
gravest importance ! 

Robert. Let you have the child?! I once 
asked you to take him, and you refused; now / 
refuse ! The child belongs to his mother, and if 
Helene consents to abandon him, then I should be 
the first — Why — ! 

Claire. To have a Duke of Chantemelle 
educated by Helene Vatrin — to have him grow 
up with her ideas, out of sympathy with our be- 
liefs, our faith?! Would you allow that? To 
think that a creature like Helene could so deceive 
you — ! Now I see what you meant when you 
spoke about the uniformity of the waves and the 
vision of a new mankind! Her ideas, the ideas 
of a woman of the common people have taken 
root in you ! You try to make those ideas fit in 
with your own, you are bhnded because they please 
you — you are infected with them ! Robert, 
come to yourself! Before your marriage, you 
swore to me that if Helene were not the mother 
of your child, you would not marry her! Now 
you are sacrificing your son to her ! 

Robert. Very well, admit that I am; you 
forget one thing: our parents are getting old. 
Helene will of necessity be the only one left to 
take care of her son ! There's the sacrifice ! 

Claire. I am young, and I am stronger than 
Helene ! I offer my whole life, Robert, for your 
son. 

60 



THE FOSSILS 



Robert [struggling to dominate his emotion']. 
Impossible ! 

Claire. Then why did you speak to me, and 
me alone, — not long ago, — when you were tell- 
ing how the future Duke de Chantemelle ought 
to be educated? Wasn't I the only one who un- 
derstood? 

Robert. Stop it! 

Claire. Then in your opinion Helene is my 
equal? 

Robert. Claire, you are prejudiced against 
Helene; and you have a right to judge: your life 
has been spotless. But you must look at things 
from a different point of view. You are no 
longer a little girl. Remember, a woman may 
make a slip and yet remain worthy of respect: 
Helene Is such a woman. 

Claire. Don't leave your son with her ! 

Robert. Oh — ! Well? 

Claire. Remember, Robert, remember. Ma- 
demoiselle Vatrin was dismissed from Chante- 
melle for misbehavior — 

Robert. She loved me ! 

Claire \^driven to despair]. Loved — every- 
body!! 

[Enter the Duke, from one of the rooms at the 
side.] 

Duke. Claire, are you mad? You shout — ! 
I heard you from the smoking-room. You know 
what the doctors say? You, too, Robert? 

Claire. We are facing a greater danger than 
that! Father, I was willing, as you were, for 
Robert to marry — you know why, — you know 

6i 



FOUR PLAYS 



what it cost me ! That was for the sake of the 
family, for the future, for Henri : the hope of us 
all. Well, that's over now, we have only to look 
at the wreckage — and regret what we have done. 
Why didn't we think of one simple thing, that 
Henri before belonging to us belongs to his 
mother? And last of all, here is Robert who is 
going to make provision in his will for Helene to 
leave us and take away her child ! 

Duke [to Robert], Is this true? 

Robert. Yes. 

Duke. Don't do it! 

Robert. It is my right. 

Duke. It is ! But don't do it ! 

Robert. Give me a reason. 

Duke. A thousand, if you like. 

Claire [to the Duke], I have told him — all 
I could tell him! 

Duke. There are others! Helene's origin, 
for instance — of course, we don't wish to re- 
proach her — ! Things are done in these days 
that make the blood run cold! Even if ours were 
the most obscure of names, I should still say, 
save our honor: don't leave it in the hands of that 
woman ! 

Robert. I refuse to allow you to insult 
Helene ! 

Duke [rising to his full height]. You re- 
fuse ? ! 

Robert [making a great effort]. I am weak, 
but you cannot bend me. If you say a single in- 
sulting word against her, I'll leave the house and 
take her with me ! 

Duke. She is now out there in the garden; 
62 



THE FOSSILS 



let her come in and talk to me, face to face, about 
her rights ! Let her dare ! Let her — ! 

Claire. She will be a little less proud then ! 

Robert. She will come here, to pack the 
trunks and follow me ! 

Duke. I shall keep the child, in spite of his 
mother. 

Robert. He is mine! 

Duke. Ours ! 

Robert. Mine ! 

Duke [menacing']. Ours! 

Claire [frightened] . Father ! Listen to me ! 

Duke [thrusting Claire aside]. You go away! 
This is between us ! 

Claire. Father ! 

Duke. Go ! 

[He takes Claire by the shoulders, and 
thrusts her out of the room. She remains 
behind the door, however, which is not quite 
closed.] 

Duke [goes quickly to Robert, overcome with 
rage]. Now! She was mine before she was 
yours! I committed the crime of letting you 
marry her in order that the family might not die 
out with you ! I don't intend to let you take 
from us the child we have all paid so dearly for ! 
He belongs to the family; I forbid you to lay 
hands on him! There! I think that is all! 
[Suddenly calm and dignified.] Now, if you 
think I should die, I am ready. 

Robert [looks his father in the eyes for a long 
time, then walks with unsteady steps toward the 
door. As he is about to leave, he summons up 
all his reserve strength]. One of us has to die! 

63 



FOUR PLAYS 



[^He goes out, tottering. Claire is seen be- 
hind the door; she receives him in her 
arms.^ 
Duke [going to the window and calling^. 
Helene, come here ! 

Helene [outside^. Why? It's so lovely 
outdoors. 

Duke {^stamping on the floor']. Come here! 
[/« a voice of thunder.'] I tell you, come here ! 
\^He returns to the center of the room, and 
stands waiting, his eyes fixed upon the door. 
Enter Helene; the moment she sees the ex- 
pression on the Duke's face, she is terror- 
stricken.] 
Duke \_bruskly]. You have tried to steal 
our child ! — You bear one of the most honorable 
names in France, you are rich and respected — 
you ought to be satisfied. You have asked for 
more, and you will now receive justice. I have 
told everything to Robert. 

Helene [sobbing]. My God! 
Duke. My words have sacrificed a life: 
either Robert's or mine — I don't know which. 
I told Robert I was willing to die — he said that 
one of us must, and he is right. He is now try- 
ing to find a way that will avoid all scandal, and 
he will succeed, I know he will! 

[Enter Claire. The Duke questions her with 

a look.] 
Claire. He says nothing! I wanted to talk 
with him — he gave me such a look — ! I 
didn't dare stay with him! He knows that I 
knew everything — ! 

Duke. Repeat it to him, word for word; 

64 



THE FOSSILS 



don't leave him! The only honor in my crime 
is that you, the soul of purity, are my accom- 
plice! Go and tell him: he must not have the 
shadow of a doubt! 

[Enter the Duchess.^ 

Duchess. What has happened? Robert is 
terribly changed! I found him nearly dead in a 
chair! When he saw me, he got up and told me 
he was leaving for Chantemelle to-night. I 
couldn't argue with him ! 

Claire [going to the Duke, and looking him 
straight in the face]. That will kill him! It 
was twenty degrees below zero there yesterday! 

Duchess. I told him, but he wouldn't listen. 
I told him I would find Helene for him, and his 
face was — ! Now I remember, the moment I 
pronounced Helene's name, he turned white as 
snow ! We can't let him go away like that ! 
Helene, why aren't you with him now? 

Helene [in terror]. No, no, not now! No! 

Duchess. Have you and Robert — ? Only 
this morning you were talking together — What's 
the matter? 

[Helene gives a vague gesture.] 

Duke. Helene had better stay here! You 
see she is very nervous. She's not well! She 
can't go to him ! ! 

Duchess [to the Duke]. Then you speak to 
Robert, you have so much influence with him ! 

Duke [hesitating]. I? I can't go! [Glanc- 
ing at Claire significantly]. Claire, you ought to 
speak to him. 

Duchess. But why not you, Henri? Why, 
you are nearly as pale as Helene ! Are you afraid 

6s 



FOUR PLAYS 



of something? You, too, Claire! Your face is 
changed ! 

Claire. There's nothing strange, Mother! 
I am afraid for Robert! 

Duchess. Why do you look at your father 
that way? What's the matter? You are hid- 
ing something from me, all of you ! There is 
some secret — what is it? Am I the only one in 
the house not to know? Helene, tell me! 
[Helene hides her face in her hands, sohhing, as 
the Duchess looks at her in silence.'] Helene, this 
is not the first time I have asked you a question — 
the last time you behaved as you do now — . Cry, 
cry now, if you like, but you are going to tell me ! 

Duke. Never mind her, I'll answer for her! 

Claire [^terrified]. Let me tell her! 

Duchess. You, Claire? Last summer you 
begged me to send her away from Chantemelle; 
you gave me no reasons, and I asked for none. 
We were face to face, both of us quivering with 
fear. Your eyes spoke — spoke and told me — 
what Robert has just found out! It's too hor- 
rible ! Such shame in our house ! And she has 
married our son! And you, Claire, knew all the 
time! And you never said a word! Oh, I don't 
know what I — ! And you knew — ! 

Claire. Mother, since I've known this se- 
cret, I haven't had a moment's peace of mind — I 
have sacrificed all to something that is greater than 
we are — 

Duchess. Nothing is more sacred than an 
oath — you have no sense of honor if you be- 
lieve otherwise ! 

Claire. I was thinking only of the child. 
66 



THE FOSSILS 



Duchess. The child! Ha! The poorest 
of peasants cries when he loses his son, and when 
Robert dies you won't think of him — his son to 
you is only a title ! If the title is saved, you are 
happy! The child will live in glory and honor, 
no matter what infamies are committed to save 
the title ! And all for a poor little bastard — 

Duke. Don't insult the child! Robert will 
not allow it! 

Duchess. Robert will not — ! [She breaks 
out into tears.~\ Your own son, killed by you — 
let him decide — don't ask anything of me — 

\_Enter Robert, his face deadly pale. He can 
hardly walk; but he shows great strength in 
his efforts. As soon as she sees him, the 
Duchess assumes an attitude of outward 
calm, Claire goes to him at once, and helps 
him to walk.] 

Robert. Let us forget ourselves for the time 
being, and save little Henri: he is the family, 
think of him ! 

Duchess. We'll do anything, only stay with 
us! 

Robert. I am going to the Ardennes this 
evening — I have presentiments, and I am never 
mistaken about them: this time, I feel that death 
is not far away, and when it comes I want to be 
there^ with my memories of the past: not only of 
my youth, but of all our glorious past! I feel 
I have lived for centuries and centuries ! The 
trip will doubtless cut short my life by a few days, 
but I shall at least have shown you what devotion 
to an ideal is ! 

Duke. An ideal? 

67 



FOUR PLAYS 



Robert. Yours, ours : the honor of our name. 
Helene and Claire and I are going. You may- 
stay here with Mother and the little one, if you 
like ; you may bring little Henri back with you to 
Chantemelle when the bad weather is over. 

Claire. I am going with Robert. I — I ad- 
mire him — so much! [To Helene.'] Come 
Helene, we have to get ready, and help Robert — 
Come — 

[Helene follows Claire out of the room, walking 
as if she were in a dream.] 

Duke [riveted to the floor]. Robert, I have 
abdicated! You are the head of the family! 
Command, they will all obey you ! — Good-by ! — 

[He picks up his hat and overcoat, and goes out 
to the beach. The Duchess throws herself 
into Robert's arms, convulsed with sobs.] 



[Curtain.] 



68 



ACT IV 

[The same scene as in the first two acts. It 
is night. The door upstage to the left ^ is 
open; the passage formed hy this door is trans- 
formed into a chapel, brightly lighted by 
candles where the body of Robert is exposed 
upon a bier. 

The Duchess and Claire are kneeling in 
prayer before the bier. About them are numer- 
ous peasants, men and women, who from time 
to time cast a glance at the body and pray. 

Down-stage to the left sits the Duke, his arms 
resting on the table, his face buried in his hands. 
Behind him, near the principal entrance to the 
room, stands a servant in livery, who conducts 
the peasants back and forth during the first part 
of the act. — The peasants go first to the bier, 
say a '^ Pater, ^' then cross themselves and go 
out. Some sprinkle holy water on the body. 

For about a minute after the curtain rises, 
no one speaks. — The visitors enter, then bow 
ceremoniously to the Duke, who rarely raises 
his eyes. 

A large Farmer, as he leaves the bed, ap- 
proaches the Duke and offers his condolence. 

The Farmer is dressed in his best clothes.'] 

1 When the play was produced at the Theatre Libre, the bier 
was placed up-stage, center, the head of the body touching the 
back wall, the feet pointing toward the footlights. — Tr. 

69 



FOUR PLAYS 



The Farmer. Ah, Monsieur le due, it's very 
sad! Such a young man! And so strong! See 
him galloping away all winter with his dogs ! — 
Maybe he wore himself out doing that? Why, 
my wife was telling me only this morning, he 
wasn't afraid of anything, not he ! And last 
Sunday, sick as he was, we saw him at High Mass 

— and then he went to the cemetery to see the old 
graves of his ancestors; and he didn't wear a hat 

— he was there most a quarter of an hour I 
There was no sense in that! He must 've done it 
on purpose — 

Duke. This Is a terrible blow for me, Renaud 

— / ought to have been the first to go ! 

The Farmer. Oh, Monsieur le due Is like a 
rock yet ! — Monsieur Robert used to come 
around to the farm often — he liked us farmers, 
and the animals too ! He'd 've been a fine master 
to us later on! 

Duke. We shall do our best to have his son 
resemble him; he must make the same friends for 
Chantemelle as his father did ! 

[The Duke shakes hands with the Farmer, who 

goes out. 
After the peasants cease coming in, enter a 
Neighbor, He wears a fur cap and carries 
a heavy cane; his thick boots and leather leg- 
gings proclaim him a hunter. His trousers 
and coat are of black cloth. The servant 
points out the Duke to him.^ 
The Neighbor [going to the Duke]. My 
dear friend! [They shake hands cordially.] I 
just heard the sad news this noon. I'd gone out 
early in the morning shooting wild geese — when 

70 



THE FOSSILS 



I got back for lunch they told me. — So you didn't 
arrive soon enough? 

Duke. We arrived just an hour ago. 

The Neighbor. It was over last night, wasn't 
it? 

Duke. We received the telegram at four in 
the afternoon. 

The Neighbor. Just in time to catch the 
train? 

Duke. Yes ! 

The Neighbor [turning toward the body]. 
He's there! Poor Robert! I'll go and see him 
for the last time ! I don't like to disturb the 
ladies; how are they? 

Duke. Tired — utterly worn out — 

The Neighbor. Mademoiselle Claire was 
here, wasn't she? 

Duke. Yes — she was admirable — my 
daughter-in-law was here, too. 

The Neighbor. If I can be of any service, 
I—? 

[The Duke bows his head sadly, shakes hands 
again with the Neighbor, who goes toward 
the body. The Duke accompanies him. 
The Duke is intercepted by a Nun who enters 
through the door, down-stage to the left. 
She was Robertas nurse during his last ill- 
ness.^ 

The Nun. Monsieur le due, they tell me the 
village blacksmith is waiting to close the coffin. 

Duke. We've been here hardly an hour! 
The Duchess wants to keep her son a little longer ! 
Must he — ? 

The Nun. Yes! 

71 



FOUR PLAYS 



Duke. Try to keep the strangers out of the 
way; I don't want any one by while his mother is 
with him ! You may bring the men in a few mo- 
ments — afterward ! 

[The Duke goes hack to his place. The Nun 
tells the servant to admit no one else, then 
goes to Claire and whispers something to her, 
while the servant sends the peasants out. 
The Neighbor also leaves the room, then the 
Nun. The Duchess remains at the foot of 
the bier, oblivious of what is happening. 
Claire goes to her father, and speaks with 
him in an undertone.^ 
Claire. Father, they are going to close Rob- 
ert's coffin — ! [Showing him a sheet of paper 
folded between the leaves of her prayer-book.^ 
I want to read his will before us all, while he is 
still with us. Then I shall tell you about his last 
hours : not the agony, you know about that, but 
his last wishes. They are worthy of him ! 

Duke. You represent your brother: what you 
wish shall be done. 

Claire. Thank you. I am going to call 
Helene — 

[She speaks a few words to the servant, who 

goes out. At the same time the Duchess 

rises, her face wet with tears, and joins her 

husband. Claire comes to them.^ 

Duchess [looking toward the bier^. He 

hasn't changed! He is sleeping! 

Claire. He is ! He closed his eyes quietly 
without the least struggle. His last thought was 
the honor of the family — 

Duchess. Was Helene there? 
72 



THE FOSSILS 



Claire. I called her toward the last. 

Duchess. Did he recognize her? 

Claire. He asked for her. 

Duchess. Then she didn't go near him all 
that week while he was sick? 

Claire. Oh, yes, she was often with him; we 
had no reason to send her away. Robert treated 
her exactly as he had always done — there was 
only one change in him : he had no desire to live — 

Duchess [sobbing']. His prayer was an- 
swered! 

Claire. Courage, Mother! You will need 
a great deal to-day! I have sent for Helene: I 
want you all to hear Robert's last wishes — 

l^The Duchess again kneels by the bier. 'I 

Duke. Your mother can't stand this — how 
long will she be like that? 

Claire. If she can only bear up until the 
funeral is over! 

Duke. How foolish we were, Claire, to think 
that with a secret like this we could live together 
happily! We can stand the strain now, and for 
some time to come, but — after ? 

Claire. Then Mother will not suffer so 1 
She loves you too much, she understands her re- 
ligion too well to leave you. 

Duke. But when I have to face Helene — 

Claire. Helene w^ill be no obstacle — 

Duke. Is she going to leave? Then she's 
not going to take the child? I am sure Robert 
will not allow him to be in unsafe hands. But 
if Helene goes away by herself, what will people 
think ? 

Claire. Have no fear about that! Helene 
73 



FOUR PLAYS 



will not leave here alone. The martyrdom you 
think Mother will have to suffer will be borne by 
some one else. 

Duke. You, Claire? 

Claire [repressing the tears'\. Please don't 
ask me ! — What I have to look forward to is too 
terrible to think about. Robert himself will tell 
you what we are going to do. When you hear 
the words from his mouth then I shall tell you 
what is to become of me. 

[Enter Helene. She stands in the center of 
the room. The Duke and Claire are down- 
stage to the right. '\ 
Claire. Helene, my mother wishes to see 
you — there ! 

[Helene goes to the bier. She waits there 

for the Duchess, who is still on her knees. 

At last the Duchess rises, and she and 

Helene face each other. The Duchess holds 

her hand out, with her eyes still on the 

body ; Helene takes her hand for a moment. 

Then the Duchess goes to Claire and the 

Duke. They are grouped as follows: the 

Duke leaning on the table down-stage to the 

right; the Duchess seats herself to the left, 

Helene remains standing before the bier; 

Claire, standing in the center, reads the 

will.'] 

Claire [the will in hand]. Here is Robert's 

will. The beginning is like those old wills of our 

forefathers — I can imagine him making a cross 

for a signature! [Reading.] 

" In the name of the Father and the Son and 
the Holy Spirit, I, Robert Charles-Henri de 

74 



THE FOSSILS 



Chantemelle, about to appear before God, ask 
pardon for all the wrongs I have committed 
against my people, and do solemnly swear that I 
bear in my heart not the slightest resentment 
against any one of them, whosoever he may be. 
I wish my father to know that I felt as deeply 
as he at the thought of the disappearance of our 
family. He forgot that he was a father only to 
remember that he was a duke. He had the 
strength to crush certain sacred sentiments, I to 
forget vengeance — I thank God for taking my 
life at a time when such vengeance became im- 
possible for me. 

" On my death, I ordain the following: 

" I humbly beg my father and my mother to 
continue their existence together in the true spirit 
of Christian humility, after I am gone. I have 
learned a valuable lesson from my mother, which 
has greatly helped me, and taught me to die In 
peace. 

" Claire has nothing to reproach herself with 
In regard to me. When at last she saw the im- 
possibility of my surviving she fully realized her 
responsibility. How willing she is to expiate her 
noble crime In trying to preserve the ancient glory 
of our family ! 

" I should be guilty of grave indelicacy were 
I to record here what she has promised to do. 
I leave It to her to explain In what way she Is 
wlUIng to sacrifice herself. Claire will be my 
representative among you ; I place Helene and 
her child in Claire's hands. Whatever she shall 
think best, will be my wish. 

" I ask my parents to give to Helene the 
75 



FOUR PLAYS 



Chateau des Ecluses in Normandy. She promised 
me to go there and consecrate her life to the educa- 
tion of her son. She may be justly charged with 
perjury if she deviates in the slightest degree from 
this single end. I had the right to demand this 
oath in return for the forgiveness I granted her." 
\_Helene falls to her knees , then to the floor, over- 
come.^ 

" As soon as little Henri shall reach the age of 
fifteen years, I authorize Helene to take him to 
live in Paris for the sake of the superior educa- 
tional facilities which are to be found only there. 
The future Duke de Chantemelle must be well 
educated: the idea that to his rank is to be added 
personal worth must be inculcated in him. Noth- 
ing should be neglected to make him a modern 
man, in the deepest significance of the word: he 
must love his country to-day, and understand its 
glories and its greatness. We shall be lost if we 
continue to prolong our hates and prejudices, 
which in the times immediately following the 
Revolution were quite pardonable, but which now- 
adays are evidence only of laziness and selfish 
egotism. The Revolution guillotined our fathers 
who were at first so ready to sacrifice all for its 
sake, but we use that argument as a pretext to com- 
bat every attempt at social betterment. Let us 
rather carry forward our own traditions by paying 
for our well-intentioned errors with our lives, and 
prove thereby that the nobility can at least furnish 
an object-lesson of self-immolation, and pave the 
way for the men of our time, too keen of mind, 
and too forgetful of sentiment! When those who 
are more unfortunate than we ask for more and 

76 



THE FOSSILS 



better conditions, let us be ready to put ourselves 
at their head with the idea that those we are lead- 
ing may fire upon us from behind! The nobility 
it seems to me has accomplished its ends and is a 
thing of the past; it has been exploited too much 
for the sake of wealth, and based too little upon 
merit : it has ever remained closed to the great men 
who have sprung from the people, and the people 
have reciprocated. Before it finally disappears it 
must by means of a pious lie give the same impres- 
sion of grandeur of former times that is left by the 
gigantic fossils which tell us of the greatness of 
past ages ! 

" Later, when my heir grows to manhood, I 
ask that Claire tell him the manner of my death, 
how his grandparents, his aunt, and his mother, 
have sacrificed for him, in order that his name 
should survive without a stain. He must under- 
stand that this name, perpetuated by means of a 
monstrous crime, should be borne with almost 
superhuman dignity. I want Claire to repeat to 
him what she said to me yesterday : * Our lives 
all end with yours. But what does that matter? 
We have searched the whole field to find a little 
flower!'" 

Duchess \_sohhing'\, Robert! 

Duke. His is the spirit of the race ! 

Claire. There is something more : about me. 
I promised Robert never to marry, and to live with 
Helene all my life. 

Duchess. No, no, Claire, not that! To 
leave me all alone ! 

Claire [calmlyl. I made an oath to him! 
[Turning toward the bier.'] Robert, again I swear 

77 



FOUR PLAYS 



to follow your wife and your son wherever they 
may go, and help them carry their name with 
dignity through life. This I consider as a debt of 
honor contracted in your favor the day I allowed 
Helene to enter the family. She and I promise 
to devote ourselves to the education of the child: 
to make him first an honest man, and, better, 
a man capable of dying for the sake of an Idea — 
as you said — and as you did — ! 

Duchess. Claire — good-by ! Let me say 
good-by now : later, I couldn't ! 

[Claire throws herself into her mother's arms. 
They go toward the bier.^ 

Duke [following them, makes a last prayer by 
his son, then, after crossing himself, he goes 
straight to Helene and looking her in the eyes says 
in a calm, low voice'] . Good-by — daughter ! 

[He goes oiit.l 



[Curtain.] 



78 



The Serenade 

iA Bourgeois Study) 

Play in Three Acts 

By 
JEAN JULLIEN 

TRANSLATED BY 

BARRETT H. CLARK 



Presented for the first time, in Paris, at the 
Theatre Libre, December 23, 1887. 



To Henry Ceard 

in grateful recognition 
from his confrere 

Jean Jullien. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED: 

Theodore Cottin, jeweler, §8 years old. 
Calixte Poujade, Cottin^s partner, ^5 years old, 
Maxime Champanet, 25 years old. 
Prosper Poujade^ F on jade's nephew, 27 years 

old. 
DuMOULiN^ ^2 years old. 
FouRNiER, servant. 
A Customer. 

Nathalie Cottin, Cottin's wife, j/ years old. 
Genevieve Cottin, Nathalie's daughter, 18 

years old. 
Celina Roulard, ig years old. 
Leocadie Dumoulin, 43 years old. 
Clemence, 18 years old. 
Dodo, Theodore Cottin' s son, g years old. 
Country neighbors, servants. 

The first act takes place in Cottln's jewelry- 
shop, Paris; the second at the Cottins' country 
house; the third in the Cottins' dining room, Paris. 

N.B. — The roles of Cottin and Poujade should 
not be assumed by " comic " actors. 

The theater should be dark. 



THE SERENADE 

". . . This revolutionary Serenade, which 
destroyed forever the conventional virgin- 
ity of ingenues on the stage, and by its 
happy delineation of the average bourgeois 
created at once that type of play w^hich 
has since been termed the Theatre-Libre 
play. . . ." (Henry Ceard, in Evene- 
ment, October, 1891.) 

ACT I 

\_A jeweler's shop in the Palais-Royal. — At 
the back a glazed door; right, a long table; a 
door leading to the stair-case; down-stage, a 
cash desk. — l-eft, a round table, chairs, and a 
door behind a portiere. — The furniture is 
severe in style: dark wood with purple plush. 

As the curtain rises, there is still some day- 
light on the scene.'] 

PoujADE [seated before the cash desk, reading 
a newspaper. Excitedly]. Another! This is 
too much ! — Prosper, did you hear about that 
crime in the Rue des Vertus? 

Prosper [at the back, arranging jewel-boxes 
upon a shelf]. No, Uncle. 

PoujADE. Listen, my boy, and be warned once 
for all on the comforts of marriage ! [Reading.] 
" They had not been living on the best of 
terms — " Ah! " Last night the neighborhood 

85 



FOUR PLAYS 



was aroused by several revolver shots : the husband 
had just fired upon the guilty pair when the neigh- 
bors disarmed him. The lover was killed in- 
stantly, the wife died two hours later." What do 
you say to that, my lover? 

Prosper. I say that there are evil women as 
well as good; the main point is to choose wisely. 

PoujADE. That's exactly where the wisest, of 
us are fooled, my dear Prosper: all women are 
angels before marriage; afterward they're de- 
mons ! Of course, I am the first to admit that Cot- 
tin's daughter is perfect, adorable; she has — 
every imaginable good quality; she's intelligent, 
good-hearted — marry her, and then tell me what 
you find out. 

Prosper. Uncle, do you think that she — ! 
Mademoiselle Genevieve is — 

Poujade [authoritatively']. Let me finish! 
In the matter of marriage I've had a Httle more 
experience than you. I've escaped eleven mar- 
riages in my life-time, and I thank God every day 
for preserving me ! 

Prosper. He was wrong to do It! 

Poujade \_going to Prosper]. But don't you 
see that some day or other with my quick temper 
I might have done what that man In the Rue des 
Vertus did ? Bang ! I'd have killed every one In 
the affair and myself Into the bargain! [He 
shrugs his shoulders and indicates by a gesture the 
boxes which Prosper has been arranging.] An- 
other wooden one — ? 

[Enter Dumoulin.] 

Prosper [runs to him quickly. Smiling]. Ah, 
Monsieur Dumoulin ! 

86 



THE SERENADE 



DuMOULiN [to Prosper]. How are you? 
[To Poujade, who has advanced from the cash 
desk and stands holding out his hand.] How are 
you, Monsieur Poujade? How is dear old Cot- 
tin? And Madame Cottin, and Genevieve, and 
Dodo; everybody? 

Poujade. Splendid, Monsieur, splendid. 

DuMOULiN. Good, good! How is business? 
Always first-rate? Well, what can you expect, 
changing parties this way, and with this set of 
Deputies ! Say what you will, as long as they re- 
fuse to make commercial laws for merchants, 
and mihtary laws for soldiers, they'll never get 
anywhere. Every one to his trade ; then the tax- 
payers are safe ! — Ah, the ladies at home told me 
to ask whether Cottin had decided to go to the 
country to-morrow? 

Poujade. I'm sure I can't tell you. 

Prosper. It depends on Madame, you know, 
whether they go or not ; if she takes it into her head 
to stay home, stay home she will. 

DuMOULiN [looking at his watch]. I'm very 
busy, and I'd like an answer. Is Cottin here? 
Can I see him? 

Poujade. He's up-stairs, but he's told me 
twice he doesn't want to be disturbed. Prosper, 
go and rap at his door once more. 

[Prosper goes out.] 

DuMOULiN [maliciously]. I insist, because the 
day after to-morrow I've made up my mind to fight 
a duel with you at La Varenne. 

Poujade. With me ? 

DuMOULiN [laughing]. Yes, you: a duel to 
death — for the seconds ! I want to see which of 

87 



FOUR PLAYS 



us, with the same bait, will catch the most fish in 
two hours! What do you say to that? 

PoujADE. Not half bad! You know every 
corner, every shallow, every pool in the Marne, as 
w^ell as you do the shelves in your own shop ; and 
you have nicknames for the fish. 

DuMOULiN. We'll fish in the same place — 
I'll follow after you ! 

PoujADE. Well, the fried fish you'll bring 
home won't give any one indigestion ! 

DuMOULiN [with an air of omniscience~\. 
We'll see, we'll see whether Normans are as good 
as Gascons ! 

Prosper \_re-entering'\. I rapped and rapped, 
and Monsieur told me to go to the devil, and Ma- 
dame said, " All right, all right, Monsieur will be 
down in two minutes." 

DuMOULiN. Hm! Family quarrel! I 
oughtn't to interfere with a husband when he is so 
occupied. I'll run along! I know what those 
things are ! Only this morning at my place, I had 
one; and the reason — ! My wife wanted to put 
on a yellow hat, said it was in style; you should 
have heard her: " You haven't a grain of taste! 
You're a tyrant ! You never do anything for me ! 
Is there a woman on earth as miserable as I ! — " 
At your service. Monsieur Poujade; keep the duel 
in mind. Good-by, Prosper. I'll look in again 
to-morrow. 

[He shakes hands with Prosper, and goes o//^.] 

Poujade [on the threshold']. Kind regards to 
the ladies! 

[Poujade and Prosper resume their places as 
88 



THE SERENADE 



before. Footsteps are heard on the stairs. 
Enter Cottin.'] 

CoTTiN. Well, what is it? What is it you 
want, Prosper? I have only a moment — 

Prosper. Monsieur Dumoulin was here and 
wanted to know if you were going to La Varenne 
to-morrow, and Uncle told me to ask you — 

PoujADE [interrupting^. Yes, the Dumoulins 
it seems have organized a little party for Sunday 
and they want to know if you'd like to go with 
them. 

Prosper [^oin^ to the door'\ . Shall I call him 
back? 

Cottin. Never mind. — How do I know 
whether we're going to the country? How can 
any one decide anything with Nathalie? A fish- 
ing party! So you disturb me to tell me about a 
thing like that? A fishing party with the Du- 
moulins ! If we go, they'll see us : they live next 
to our villa ! — I've been laying down the law to 
my wife up-stairs for the last hour, and the mo- 
ment I begin to get the upper hand you break in 
and spoil everything! Now I've got to start all 
over again! 

PoujADE [going toward Cottin']. What's the 
matter now? 

Cottin [to Poujade, at the foot of the stairs, as 
Prosper goes back to his work]. Nothing new! 
Same old thing ! It's about Dodo ! They're fill- 
ing him so full of education that he won't know 
anything; they'll kill him ! Think of it, a babe of 
nine reciting fables ! You know, Poujade, now he 
can't even talk! All day at his lessons! Scrib- 

89 



FOUR PLAYS 



bllng all the time ! And that Monsieur Maxime 
never leaves him, never does anything but scold his 
pupil ! Are they going to make a professor of the 
boy? Why on earth should he go into the Tech- 
nical School if he's going to be a jeweler? And 
they won't listen to me ! I wanted to send him to 
boarding-school as I did his sister, and keep 
him there till he was seventeen or eighteen — then 
there wouldn't have been any question about all 
this stuff now ! Nathalie went into hysterics. 
No, don't make the child work, he's too delicate ! 
An education at the lycee wasn't good enough — 
she had a thousand reasons. I had to give in. 

PoujADE. And you a man of character! I 
wouldn't let them pull my nose that way ! I'd say 
" I want! " and I'd be obeyed! 

CoTTiN. Of course, I don't know anything 
about education and all that, so I ought to listen to 
my wife. At bottom, I don't think she's all 
wrong, but she exaggerates. If I'd had Latin 
stuffed down my throat all day like Dodo, I'd have 
gone crazy. Really, I'm worried about him. 

PoujADE. Give in to your wife, old man, it's 
your duty as a husband and father! Struggle 
with women? Never! [Confidingly.] But really, 
Cottin, now I think of it, you can get rid of one of 
your tyrants by marrying your daughter. 

Cottin [shrugging his shoulders]. You're 
joking; she's too young anyway, and then you know 
Genevieve is the dearest creature I have, and I'd 
like to give her to my dearest friend. You're the 
man, but unluckily you're a trifle too — old. [In 
an undertone.'] Your heir! [Pointing to Pros- 
per.] 

90 



THE SERENADE 



PoujADE. Not SO loud! If he heard you, 
he'd be sick for joy. 

COTTIN [lau^hin^l. You think so? So much 
the better! At least he'll not grow up to be an 
old curmudgeon, like his uncle ! 

[Steps are heard on the stair-case. The voice 
of a child outside sings~\ 

Voice 

" On dainty wing the butterfly 
Floats from flow'r to flow'r — '' 

COTTIN. Not so much noise, Monsieur Dodo, 
please! [The voice sounds nearer.] Poor little 
martyr, must have some fun, I suppose ! 

[Cottin sits down near the cash desk. Enter 
Dodo.] 

Dodo. It's me 1 

[He crosses the stage with his hooks under his 
arm, and makes for the door on the opposite 
side. He drops some hooks.] 

CoTTiN. Where are you going, you young 
vagabond? 

Dodo. There. 

CoTTiN. What are you going to do? 

T>OT>o [picking up the hooks]. Work! Don't 
I always have to work in this house? 

CoTTlN. Why there, in the little room ? 

Dodo. Mama told me to. 

CoTTiN. Another of her ideas ! — Weren't 
you comfortable up-stairs? 

Dodo. Mama said she wanted to keep an eye 
on me, and every time she came down to the store 
she wanted Monsieur Maxime to come down with 
her! 

Poujade [who has gone upstage to Prosper, 
91 



FOUR PLAYS 



returns to the cash desk^. What do you say to 
that, Cottin? What have you to complain of? 

COTTIN [with resignation]. Nothing! [To 
Dodo.] Is your mother coming down soon? 
She must know I have to go out with Poujade: we 
have an appointment ! 

Dodo. She'll be down soon. 

[He goes out slowly.] 

Cottin. I tell you they're killing him ! [He 
shakes his head lugubriously , then turns round with 
an air of determination.] Oh, Poujade, that mat- 
ter of the diamonds — is it worth bothering about, 
or shall we let it go? 

Poujade. It's worth considering; if nothing 
comes of it, we can let it go. 

Cottin [impatiently; as he rises]. Why 
doesn't Nathalie come? [To Prosper.] Pros- 
per, go up and tell Madame to hurry. [Prosper 
goes out.] Six o'clock ! She'll make us miss that 
appointment! [Poujade goes out at the hack.] 
How tiresome women are, they're never on time 1 
[Goijig to the door opening upon the stair-case.] 
Nathalie! We're waiting for you, dear! 

[Enter Madame Cottin, followed hy Maxime, 
who carries some articles of clothing on his 
arm.] 

Mme. Cottin [sitting at the cash desk]. Here 
I am! Here I am! You'd think the house was 
on fire to hear you shout so ! 

Cottin. Did you bring down my hat and coat 
and umbrella ? 

[Poujade is meantime putting on his hat and 
coat, upstage.] 

Mme. Cottin. Monsieur Maxime was kind 
92 



THE SERENADE 



enough to bring everything: hat, coat, and um- 
brella. 

CoTTiN. Why do you trouble Monsieur Max- 
ime? Wasn't Fournier there? 

Mme. Cottin. I sent him to do some errands 
for me. 

Cottin [hurrying to Maxime who is in the cen- 
ter of the stage]. I'm very, very sorry, Monsieur 
Maxime ! I don't know why my wife imposes on 
you so! [To Mme. Cottin.] Oh, Nathalie, to 
think of Monsieur Maxime's carrying my things ! 

Maxime. Nonsense, Monsieur Cottin, I'm 
only too glad to be of service to you ! 

Cottin [relieving Maxime of the clothes]. I 
hear they've changed your working quarters in the 
house; they've put you in the customers' waiting 
room. 

Maxime [passing to the left of Cottin, and help- 
ing him put on his coat]. Yes, Madame thought 
the room we had been using was too much exposed 
to the brightness of the setting sun, that it would 
be too hot in the evenings. 

Cottin [interrupting]. What, Dodo's room 
exposed to the setting sun? 

Mme. Cottin [aside to her husband]. I told 
him that as an excuse; I merely want to keep 
watch. 

Cottin [aside]. That's wise. [Aloud.] 
Yes, I think you'll be more comfortable down here. 
[To Poujade.] Are you ready, Poujade? [To 
Mme. Cottin.] That bill from Durandeau will 
probably come; pay it. Then there's that insur- 
ance agent's watch to be fixed. — Send for Madame 
de Champtonnerre's necklace. That's all, I think. 

93 



FOUR PLAYS 



Sell as many chronometers as possible : they're not 
worth a sou nowadays. [He starts to go, hut 
comes back,] Excuse me, dear, I almost forgot! 
[He kisses her.'] 

Mme. Cottin. I forgive you. [She kisses 
him. Cottin and Poujade go out.] 

Mme. Cottin [going toward Maxime, who 
stands apart] . One for him ; two for you ! 

[She kisses him on both cheeks.] 

Maxime. You must be careful. What if he 
had forgotten his handkerchief, or his cane — or 
anything ? 

Mme. Cottin. Love doesn't think of such 
things, Maxime. [She brings him down to the 
cash desk, and makes him sit by her side.] Here, 
sit next to me — close. I want to see you, hear 
you, look at you — my poet ! Repeat to me again 
some of those beautiful and graceful words that 
carry me up into the clouds ; recite those love verses 
you whispered to me the other evening: about 
Spring, and the honeysuckles and the flowers — 

Maxime [sulkily]. What put it into your head 
to have me give my lessons here? Weren't we 
much better in the other room? Any one might 
find us here, a customer, a shop-keeper — 

Dodo [entering]. M'sieu! — M'sieu! I've 
copied the paragraph. What must I copy now? 

Mme. Cottin. Dodo, you're awful; can't you 
be good for two minutes? You're very naughty! 
When I'm talking with your teacher, I don't want 
to be interrupted. Copy the next paragraph and 
don't disturb us ! 

Dodo. I've finished the chapter — I can't copy 
the next paragraph. 

94 



THE SERENADE 



Mme. Cottin. Begin with the next chapter. 

Maxime [rising], I'll show him — he can't 
find the place. 

Mme. Cottin [retaining Maxime']. Don't go, 
he's old enough to find out for himself. 

Maxime. Do what your mother tells you : be- 
gin the next chapter. I'll come and see how you're 
getting on in a minute. 

[Dodo goes out.'] 

Mme. Cottin [to Maxime, severely]. Now, 
Monsieur, tell me what debauches you had last 
night; where did you go? 

Maxime. A number of us met and had our 
monthly dinner — there was music, and we re- 
cited poetry. 

Mme. Cottin. Did you recite? 

[Dodo, who had slowly made his retreat comes 
back laughing.] 

Dodo. There aren't any more chapters ! 

Mme. Cottin [very angry]. Back again, 
Dodo ! ? You're going to take your note-book, 
Monsieur, and write out twice the whole conjuga- 
tion, '' I am a disobedient and rude boy." 

Dodo. Well, I can't help it if the book stops ! 

[He goes out, with tears in his eyes.] 

Mme. Cottin. What did you recite ? 

Maxime. The Serenade. 

Mme. Cottin. Oh, The Serenade! How 
they must have applauded! Did they call you 
back twenty times and carry you around in tri- 
umph ! ? Oh, what a lovely poem it is ! So full of 
love! And you recite it so passionately! I'll 
never forget the night I heard it for the first time ! 
Do you remember, Maxime? 

95 



FOUR PLAYS 



Maxime. Oh, I've repeated it so often — ! 

Mme. Cottin [in the clouds^. It was a Sun- 
day; we were in the country, at La Varenne, with 
the Dumouhns and our cousins the Boulards. It 
was night, we were on the terrace — a hot night, 
and the air was full of perfume ! I never had 
such a lovely sensation! Your voice rippled like 
a nightingale's — I was yours then, you had com- 
pletely conquered me ! Don't you remember, aft- 
erwards, among the young vines, the kisses — 

Maxime [coldly]. Oh, so that was the day? 

Mme. Cottin. And the Boulards and the 
Dumoulins who were looking everywhere for us ! 
What if they had found us ! 

Maxime. I can't imagine what led you — 
why, only a few steps away from your husband ! 

Mme Cottin. Can you think of such things at 
a time like that? Think how careful we've had to 
be since! To avoid any suspicion! 

Maxime. Are you sure your husband suspects 
nothing? 

Mme. Cottin. Do you think he would act this 
way if he did? 

Maxime. No, but I think I see him hiding 
something under his good-natured appearance. 
Take care, he may be spying! The way he gives 
in to everything you ask — it may be a trap. I'd 
feel sorry for you if he ever found out ! 

Mme. Cottin. I know he's a thousand miles 
from suspecting anything. He thinks you are 
very much interested in Dodo's education. In case 
he heard or thought he saw anything suspicious, I 
should simply deny everything, and he'd believe 
me. 

96 



THE SERENADE 



Maxime. But how about Poujade? 

Mme. Cottin. He's more blind than my hus- 
band! And blindness In an old bachelor is the 
worst of all! Poujade! He'd swallow any 
story you gave him. He's easier to deceive with 
his fierce look than Cottin with his appearance of 
kindness. Cottin knows women, but he doesn't 
know Woman! 

Maxime. And his nephew? 

Mme. Cottin. Hm! Ssh! [Aside], 
Speak of the devil — 

[Enter Prosper, back. He looks for some- 
thing in one of the show-cases.] 

[Aloud to Maxime]. Then you don't think a 
whole chapter is too much to learn, Monsieur? 
Please don't tire him out: his health isn't too 
good, you know ! 

Maxime. I shall follow your wishes, Madame. 

[He goes out, left.] 

Prosper [with a jewel-box in his hand]. Ma- 
dame, I have looked everywhere, but I can't find 
Fournler. 

Mme. Cottin. That's not strange. If you'd 
asked me I could have told you : I sent him on some 
errands. What did you want him for? 

Prosper. To go to the shop and get Madame 
de Champtonnerre's necklace. 

Mme. Cottin. That's too bad! You'd bet- 
ter go to the shop yourself and get it. 

Prosper [hesitating a moment]. That would 
be the easiest way; I'll go at once. 

[Prosper goes out. Mme. Cottin leaves the 
cash desk and goes to the door, left, making a 
sign to Maxime.] 

97 



FOUR PLAYS 



[Re-enter Maxime.~\ 

Mme. Cottin. One word more, Monsieur 
Maxime ! [She drops the portiere over the 
door.] Leave him to write out his conjugation, 
and come and talk with me. We have so little 
time together! [They sit down on chairs, next 
each other. ~\ 

Maxime [ill at easel. So you think this Mon- 
sieur Prosper, who looks daggers at me all the 
time, hasn't the least suspicion? Do you think 
he hasn't heard by chance some of our foolish con- 
versations, some stray word? 

Mme. Cottin [laughing]. No! And the 
reason is so simple that I wonder you haven't seen 
it! Do you know why Poujade's nephew is work- 
ing in our shop ? 

Maxime. To learn the trade, isn't he? 

Mme. Cottin. There's another reason. 

Maxime. Perhaps his uncle hopes he'll suc- 
ceed him some day? 

Mme. Cottin. Come, you can guess; it's not 
so hard. Poujade has a nephew, my husband has 
a daughter; they are about the same age — 

Maxime [rising]. He marry Genevieve!? 

Mme. Cottin. Why not ? 

Maxime [taking his chair to the table]. Of 
course — why — not ? 

Mme. Cottin [also rising]. Now do you see 
why Prosper can't suspect us? He is very much 
in love with Genevieve — 

Maxime. Are you sure of that? 

Mme. Cottin. Absolutely sure. If he does 
look daggers at you, it's only because he thinks 
you are trying to please me for another reason; 

98 



THE SERENADE 



he believes you are a rival, that you're making love 
to his sweetheart. Amusing, isn't it? 

Maxime. Do you imagine that he thinks I'm 
in love with Mademoiselle Genevieve? 

Mme. Cottin. I'm sure of it, and further- 
more I'll do my best to keep him thinking so. 
The other evening, when I was talking with the 
Boulards, I gave him to understand that you had 
asked for Nini's hand in marriage, and that you 
had not been refused. He was simply furious, 
and left the room without saying a word ! How 
I laughed ! 

Maxime [troubled]. You were wrong to do 
that; see what an awkward position you put me in. 
If you make it appear that I want to marry Made- 
moiselle Genevieve, then I'll have to act the part, 
and pretend to — 

Mme. Cottin. So much the better. We'll 
have so many more chances for meeting! It's so 
much nicer to see you here than in that hotel where 
we used to meet. 

Maxime. But I'm in a nice fix with Mademoi- 
selle Genevieve ! How can I make love to her 
without asking her to marry me? I'm not very 
good at being sentimental, and my platonic 
love — !! What will she say? What will she 
think of a lover who draws back the moment he 
ought to propose ? I'll have to act a perfect cad ! 

Mme. Cottin. She won't object; you don't 
know how simple these boarding-school girls are. 
They don't know the A, B, C of love. I really 
don't think you would stand the slightest chance 
with her anyway. No offense? 

Maxime. The idea ! 
99 



FOUR PLAYS 



Mme. Cottin. Oh, your lordship, she has 
made her choice already. Prosper is the man, and 
I don't think it's a half-bad match. They're not 
too much in love, and both will make excellent 
shop-keepers. She may change some day, maybe 
she'll find her Maxime ! Come here, kiss me ! 
\^She kisses him, then resumes her place at the cash 
desk, Maxime following her.'] You haven't yet 
told me how your evening ended? 

Maxime. It was late — the night was a bit 
chilly, so I went straight home, in company with 
the stars of night, and went to bed. 

Mme. Cottin. There were women at the ban- 
quet, weren't there ? Actresses — mm — wom- 
en — ? 

Maxime. No — really — not a single one. 

Mme. Cottin. Not one ? You're lying, there 
were, I can see it in your eyes ! Don't try to deny 
it! 

Maxime. My dear Nathalie, I tell you — 

\_A customer enters, after having examined at 
some length the goods exhibited in the win- 
dows.] 

Customer \^to Maxime], Monsieur, Fve seen 
your big advertisements in the papers; chro- 
nometers for twelve francs — guaranteed for two 
years. May I see one? 

Mme. Cottin [without moving or even turtting 
her head]. Monsieur, we haven't any just now; 
we'll have some to-morrow. Come back then, will 
you? 

Customer. Well, you have those eighteen- 
franc chronometers, at any rate? I see some over 
there ! 

lOO 



THE SERENADE 



Mme. Cottin [as before]. Yes, but they're 
not guaranteed, I don't advise you to buy one of 
those. 

Customer. Well, how about the twenty-franc 
ones? 

Mme. Cottin [immovable]. They're not reli- 
able. 

Customer. I'll come back later, then. 

[He goes out.] 

Mme. Cottin [rises and goes to the center of 
the stage, looking at the door]. To think that I 
was born to be a jeweler's wife ! Argue with cus- 
tomers, listen to their complaints, haggle over a 
sou, or the price of a watch! I was never under- 
stood ! No one ever really understands me ! My 
heart is bursting! Oh, Maxime, Maxime, you 
don't love me, you have stopped loving me ! You 
were with those women last night — I know you 
were ! 

Maxime. But I tell you I wasn't! I re- 
peat — ! 

Mme. Cottin. You're moody, Maxime, 
you've been like that the past few days, you hardly 
say a word, you're not the way you used to be, 
during the first days. You don't talk the way you 
did then ! You seem afraid to be near me ! Do 
you — do you feel guilty ? 

Maxime [coldly and without showing any en- 
thusiasm]. How ridiculous! Nothing of the 
kind ! I've never been so happy in my life ! 
Haven't I everything I could wish for? To be 
near you?! 

Mme. Cottin. No, you're changed ! Before, 
you'd have kissed me twenty times while you were 

lOI 



FOUR PLAYS 



saying that! Maxime, I have a rival! I feel it! 
Oh, I'm so miserable ! 

[She falls on a chair near the table,'] 

Maxime. Really, Nathalie, your jealousy is 
ridiculous; you're not at all the same woman you 
were; this is all nonsense. Do you imagine that 
when I have you I can think of anything else? 
Would I leave you? If I seem a little — out of 
sorts to-day — it's because I have a headache. I 
must have had a little too much champagne last 
night. 

Mme. Cottin [going to him']. And you 
wouldn't tell me you were sick! Poor dear! 

Maxime. It's only a simple headache. To- 
morrow I'll be quite well. 

Mme. Cottin. It's more than a simple head- 
ache; you have a fever! Have some mint; I'll 
get you some ! Or some brandy ! Or a glass 
of Madeira ! I'll get ready some tea for you ! 

[She runs to the door, right.] 

Maxime. No, please don't! Nathahe, 
please ! 

Mme. Cottin. Drink the tea; or I won't 
believe a word of what you've said! 

[The door-bell rings; enter Genevieve, fol- 
lowed by a maid carrying a roll of music] 

Genevieve [comes in smiling at her mother]. 
Hello, Mama? [To Maxime.] How are 
you. Monsieur? [Maxime bows.] Made- 
moiselle says I've never been in such good voice 
as to-day. I sang my big number three times; she 
was delighted. She complimented me and said 
what a pity it was I couldn't go on the stage ! 

Mme. Cottin [not interested]. Singing 

I02 



THE SERENADE 



teachers always say that ! [ To the maid, as she 
goes out.^ Marie, make the tea at once for 
Monsieur Maxime, please. 

Genevieve [to Maxime, who is near the 
table]. Sick, Monsieur Maxime? 

Maxime. Your mother is too kind; it's merely 
a headache. It's nothing at all! 

Mme. Cottin. Merely a headache that makes 
him sad, out of sorts — Don't try to hide it. Mon- 
sieur Maxime: you're sick, very sick. Isn't he, 
Genevieve ? 

Genevieve. That's so. How pale you are ! 

Maxime [laughing], I have no time for sick- 
ness! 

[Enter Cottin and Poujade. 

Genevieve runs and kisses her father, then re- 
turns to talk with Maxime]. 

Mme. Cottin. Back again? [To Poujade.] 
How about the diamonds ? 

Poujade. Ask Cottin. 

Cottin [going to the cash desk and arranging 
the papers]. No, you tell her ! 

Poujade [center]. Well, Madame, a fresh 
triumph for your husband ! 

Cottin [shrugging his shoulders]. You al- 
ways put it that way ! I have nothing to do with 
it, it's merely the House of Cottin-Poujade. 

Mme. Cottin. Tell us, Poujade. 

Poujade [advancing]. The moment the 
other bidders saw Cottin, they retired from the 
field ! The whole thing was over in two seconds ; 
when he offered to give references, they made fun 
of him: " Cottin, a man like M. Cottin, known 
through all the business world of Paris for more 

103 



FOUR PLAYS 



than thirty years for his financial integrity, a man 
held in high esteem, a man to whom everybody 
would lilce to be a debtor! Ask references from 
Monsieur Cottin? It would be a disgrace to ask 
for it!" 

Cottin. Why, Poujade, they spoke of the 
House, not me ! 

Poujade \_going upstage^. House if you like, 
but yours was the credit, you are the most impor- 
tant part of the House ! 

Cottin. No one can be in business as long as 
I have and not get to be well known. There's no 
need exaggerating! 

Poujade [turns round and sees Madame Cottin 
crossing the stage with a cup of tisane,^ which 
she has just received from the maid^. Hello, 
who's this tisane for? Is someone sick? 

Genevieve. Yes — Monsieur Maxime. 
Didn't you notice how badly he was looking? 

Poujade. Why, what's the matter. Professor, 
indigestion of Latin, or did you get choked on 
Philosophy ? 

Cottin [rising quickly from his chair~\. Mon- 
sieur Maxime sick? My dear Monsieur! 

Maxime [coming forward]. Nothing, Mes- 
sieurs, only a slight headache. I have them from 
time to time — 

Cottin. You'd better go home and to bed; 
that's the best thing to do. 

Poujade [at the back]. Drink a big glass of 
punch, hire a nurse, and sweat the whole thing 
out of your system ! 

1 a light hot drink, usually flavored with orange. 
104 



THE SERENADE 



Mme. Cottin [eagerly]. You'd better go 
home, Monsieur Maxime! Take my advice, 
don't try to give your lesson this evening. 

Genevieve \^giving him the cup of tisane^. 
Drink it down boiling hot. 

Maxime. I'll burn my mouth I 

PoujADE. What's the difference? Drink it, 
man! 

Mme. Cottin [calling through the door, 
right^. Fournier, Monsieur Maxime's hat and 
coat, at once ! 

Cottin [taking Maxime's hand~\. You have 
a fearful fever, don't take cold now. The 
weather's changing, and you might easily come 
down with bronchitis — and you can't fool with 
bronchitis ! 

PoujADE [shrugging his shoulders]. I know 
how to treat bronchitis : a dozen punches ! 

[Enter Fournier with Maxime's coat and hat. 
Mme. Cottin and Genevieve help him put on 
the coat.] 

Mme. Cottin. There! 

Genevieve [turning up his collar]. Keep 
your neck covered. 

Mme. Cottin. Yes, take care of your throat! 

Maxime. Ladles, I'm quite embarrassed; I 
can't tell you — 

Mme. Cottin. Don't speak of It! Four- 
nier, you go with Monsieur Maxime to his rooms. 

[Fournier hows.] 

Cottin. That's right, run along. If you 
don't feel well enough, don't come to-morrow; take 
a rest. Good-night ! 

105 



FOUR PLAYS 



[Enter Dodo, having just heard the last words.~\ 

Dodo. 

" Vacation at last! 
Our troubles are past! 
Our teachers and books 
In the fire we cast! " 

Mme. Cottin. Heartless little wretch! 
What if he were to be very sick? 

Genevieve. Yes, what if your teacher were 
to have an awful fever? 

Cottin [simply]. No, I think it'll be bron- 
chitis if anything; I'll tell you why: bronchitis is 
a disease of the vocal organs, and the vocal or- 
gans are connected with the brain; that always 
begins with a headache ! 

PoujADE [laughing']. I'll tell you what's the 
matter with him ! I'll bet he had a high old time 
last night, and wants to rest up for to-night 
again! 

Mme. Cottin. Poujade, to say that about 
Monsieur Maxime ! 

Poujade. There's nothing wrong in that! 
Boys will be boys! It's only natural. You 
needn't worry! 

Cottin [looking at his watch]. Hurry up, 
dinner's ready, children, let's not keep the cook 
waiting. 

[He goes toward the stairs.] 

Mme. Cottin [stays down-stage with Gene- 
vieve. Poujade lights the gas at the hack.] 
Perhaps Poujade is right? What if it were only 
a pretext? 

Genevieve. Oh, Mama, wouldn't he have 
told the truth? 

io6 



THE SERENADE 



Mme. Cottin. I'll soon know. [Aside, in 
an undertone.'] Then you'll have me to deal 
with, Monsieur Maxime ! 



[Curtain.] 



107 



ACT II 

l^The terrace of a country house. Right , a 
porch and a garden; down-stage^ a table and 
chairs, heft, the entrance to the house; the 
lighted windows of the drawing-room are seen 
from an angle. — A group of young girls and 
young men are playing and conversing to- 
gether. 

It is night, and the trees are festooned with 
lanterns; a large lantern is on the table; this 
lights up the flower garden. 

Madame Cottin, Genevieve, Madame Du- 
moulin, Celina Boulard, Clemence, are seated 
in a circle; Maxime, Prosper, and the other 
young people stand behind the rest.~\ 

Maxime [to Celina]. Here's my basket; 
What do I get? 

Celina. Hm ! Charming young man I 

Genevieve. Forfeit! forfeit! That's the 
third time it's been said! Try something else, 
Cehna. 

Celina. What do you want me to say? 

Maxime. Nothing else, Mademoiselle, please ! 
What you have already said is too flattering to 
have you take it back. [To Genevieve.~\ I give 
the forfeit to Mademoiselle Cehna. 

Celina [to Prosper]. I pass the basket to 
you, Monsieur Prosper; what do I get? 

io8 



THE SERENADE 



Prosper \^glancing at Maxime^. One pawn! 

Maxime [turning to Prosper]. A fool! 

Prosper. They go together ! 

Maxime [going up to Prosper], I think a lit- 
tle breeding would do you no harm! 

Prosper. And for yourself, a little less — ar- 
rogance ! 

Mme. Cottin. Now, Messieurs, what is the 
matter? Is this the way you play at innocent 
games? Monsieur Maxime, Prosper, please, 
please : we're all friends here — no quarrels, 
please ! 

Maxime. Madame, your request is too rea- 
sonable for me to refuse. [To Prosper.] I 
shall be happy to discuss the matter with you later. 
[Pie resumes his place behind Mme. Cottin.] 

Genevieve. Messieurs, that wasn't at all 
nice of you — to spoil our game. We don't know 
now where we were — it's as bad as If we were 
playing Rhymes. 

Clemence. Oh, I'm tired of Charades, and 
Rhymes, and Puns ! 

Mme. Cottin. Maybe Monsieur Maxime 
would be good enough to recite somethlna:? 

Genevieve and Celina. Oh yes. Monsieur 
Maxime! 

Maxime [maliciously]. Oh, not first! After 
Monsieur! [Indicating Prosper.] 

Prosper. As you please ! 

[He comes forward within the circle and turns 
to Genevieve.] 

" Triolet to the Girl I Love : " 



" In the pleasant season of love 
109 



FOUR PLAYS 



\_Enter Poujade and Diimoulin, followed by 
Cottin. They come down-stage conversing, 
while Cottin stops near the table. ~\ 

Poujade. You saw the pear they left! 
Well, the ones they took were twice as big! 

DuMOULiN [stopping]. You don't mean 
it! 

Poujade. Twice as big? No, some of them 
were three times as big! If I'd caught them 
stealing those pears, I'd give 'em a piece of my 
mind! 

DuMOULiN [continues walking again}. Yes, 
I know you ! You wouldn't have left enough 
to recognize ! 

The Company. Ssh ! Ssh ! 

Genevieve. Silence, Messieurs! There's 
a recitation going on ! 

Poujade. Suppose we've got to listen! 

DuMOULiN. Let's hear it! 

[Cottin sits by the small table, right; he leans 
his elbows upon it. Dumoulin and Poujade 
stand at the opposite side of the stage.} 

Prosper [reciting in an awkward manner}. 

" Triolet to the Girl I Love." 

" Love's happy hour at last is come. 
And through the forest sweetly sound 
The songs of birds in harmony — 
Love's happy hour at last is come ! 
My love then from her cottage comes 
She's charming as she minuets 
And nods and am'rously coquets — 
My love then from her cottage comes. 
[With a threatening glance at Maxime.} 
no 



THE SERENADE 



" Two strutting cocks her favors court 
And by her side their feathers preen; 
One timid, one the other sort — 
Two strutting cocks her favors court. 
First one in tender strains holds forth, 
The other sings a Serenade — 
Two strutting cocks her favors court 
And by her side their feathers preen. 
[In despair.^ 

" The fooHsh cock, with hand on breast 
Awaits the other's fond advance: 
' Cocorico ! ' — he tries his best, 
The foohsh cock with hand on breast ! 
He wins her, takes her far away. 
Their quarrel ended that fair day : 
The foolish cock with hand on breast — 
The other killed himself — 'twas best! " ^ 
\_He sits down, overcome.] 

Celina. Bravo, Monsieur Prosper! That's 
lovely ! You're a poet, too ! 

PoujADE. Very nice, but too many repetitions 
for me. Where did you come across that rig- 
marole? 

DuMOULlN. An Apologue, isn't it. Monsieur 
Prosper? Who wrote it? 

Maxime [answering for Prosper^. An author 
who knows no more of the laws of prosody than of 
courtesy. 

Mme. Cottin. Your turn. Monsieur Maxime ! 

1 As the original is hardly poetic and, as Maxime says, not 
in accordance with the laws of prosody, an approximation only 
is attempted in the English rendering. — Tr. 

Ill 



FOUR PLAYS 



[Poujade and Dumoulin go upstage, and return 
by way of the table by which Cottin is sit- 
ting. ] 

Genevieve. Oh, yes, Monsieur Maxime! 

Maxime. I don't know a thing about such 
learned matters ! 

Mme. Cottin. Come now, recite the Seren- 
ade for us ! 

Genevieve. Yes, the Serenade, the Serenade! 

Maxime. Not that. It's too trivial. 

Genevieve. No, we want the Serenade! 

Maxime \_advancingA, The Serenade: 

Cottin [rising], I agree with Monsieur 
Champanet; let's have something else. 

Genevieve. Why not? It's so sweet and 
lovely! Yes, the Serenade! 

Cottin. Too sweet and lovely for these young 
people. When young girls are present, we should 
choose more modest subjects! 

Genevieve. Papa, you're wrong, the Seren- 
ade — 

Cottin [severely]. I am not mistaken! I 
tell you once for all I don't Intend to have any such 
filth around here ! In the presence of my chil- 
dren ! 

[The ladies rise.] 

Mme. Dumoulin [to Mme. Cottin]. My 
dear, what Is the matter with your husband to- 
day? He Is touchy! 

Mme. Cottin [center]. Some marauders 
have made him angry, I suppose. [Speaking to 
the young people.] Since you are not allowed to 
recite, children, you'd better go into the drawing- 

112 



THE SERENADE 



room; there you may sing and dance as much as 
you like ! 

{The young men offer their arms to the ladies, 
Mme, de Cottin chooses Maxime ostenta- 
tiously; she speaks to him in a confiding way, 
and once she kisses him. Cottin, who sees 
this J rises, goes a little way toward them, then 
returns to his place and sits down.^ 

DuMOULiN {^continuing his conversation with 
Poujade^. Then you use only white bait? 

PoujADE. If you'll come down to my part of 
the country, I'll show you how to fish ! 

DuMOULiN. Yes, I know, in the Midi it's 
easy — more fish than water, as you say — but, 
tell me this, did any one ever catch a fifteen-pound 
pike in your country? Well, I did. Monsieur, and 
Boulard, who's here to-night, can tell you whether 
I'm telling the truth or not — so can Cottin. 

Cottin [troubled]. Yes, yes, that pike of 
yours was fully fifteen pounds. 

DuMOULiN. It was just before I got to No- 
gent : I was sitting under the willows, fishing with 
a long line. All at once I saw an enormous fish, a 
female full of eggs ; it darted from under the bank. 
I said to myself, " Dumouhn, you'll never get 
her! " I saw her trick, then I had an idea — my 
heart was thumping at a great rate — instinct, 
Monsieur Poujade, instinct, it was ! — Well, I 
took my net, got down flat on my stomach — 

Poujade. That's not fishing/ 

DuMOULiN. Wait a moment! Whoop-la! 
I plunge the net into the water in the twinkling of 
an eye and hold it hard against the bank — I got 

113 



FOUR PLAYS 



the pike ! But that wasn't the end : I had to haul 
it up the side — it was mighty high — ask Mon- 
sieur Cottin, he knows how high it was ! 

CoTTiN [more and more troubled^. What 
was high? 

DuMOULiN. The bank where I caught the 
pike. 

Cottin. Still talking about that pike ? 

DuMOULiN. Then I took hold of the iron 
frame of the net, and leaned over as far as I could 
without falling, and brought it slowly toward me. 
Half-way up I almost lost the fish — nearly fell 
myself, too ! — then I haul again, and there's the 
fish lying on the bank ! I threw my coat over it, 
rolled it up, and ran home with it. Fifteen 
pounds it weighed ! Cottin was there, he can tell 
you if I'm lying! 

Cottin. That pike, yes: fifteen pounds. 

PoujADE. I know one better than that : a man 
in our part of the country — 

[Madame Dumoulin appears on the porch.l 

Mme. Dumoulin. Dumoulin, Dumoulin! 

Dumoulin. One minute, Leocadie, we're talk- 
ing important business ! 

Mme. Dumoulin [approaching them']. We 
need you for the Quadrille. 

Dumoulin. I don't know how to dance ! 

Mme. Dumoulin. No matter; you can learn, 
it's not hard. 

Dumoulin [rising]. I've got to go, or she'll 
never give me a moment's peace. You can tell me 
your story afterward. 

[He goes out.] 

114 



THE SERENADE 



[During the following conversation, the piano 
accompaniment to the Quadrille is heard.^ 

PoujADE [to Cottin, who walks hack and 
forth']. I can't make you out, Cottin! No use 
getting mad about one poor little pear you had 
stolen from you, and looking out of sorts all day 
long! Are you afraid they'll steal something 
else? Poujade is here, and I'll tell you, if one of 
them comes in my direction it'll be the last time ! 

Cottin. You're a great one to talk, Poujade! 

Poujade [sarcastically]. I notice that when 
you're in a bad humor you seem mighty big and 
mighty — the way you were just now. What's 
the use, now? It's not worth while. 

Cottin. Not worth while? The things they 
did before my daughter ! 

Poujade [rising]. He's said the same things 
twenty times before you ! 

Cottin. That may be; perhaps he did use 
to — that's not to-day ! 

Poujade. What about to-day, old man? 

Cottin [taking Poujade' s arm]. To-day, 
Poujade, things are happening in my family that 
are — terrible ! There's an awful comedy being 
played right under my roof — I've seen it with my 
own eyes. The thieves I want to get hold of are 
not the ones around the garden; they can steal as 
many pears as they like, I don't care a snap ! 
They [indicating the drawing-room] are the ones 
I'm after! You said I seemed mighty big and 
strong; well, I'm only beginning: I'm going to 
see this thing through — ! 

Poujade. What? Who? 
115 



FOUR PLAYS 



CoTTiN. Monsieur Champanet! Haven't 
you noticed anything, Poujade? 

PoujADE [evasively]. Nothing! Well, that 
is, you'd have to be blind not to. For that matter, 
your wife doesn't try to hide anything; she might 
just as well tell everybody! 

CoTTiN [bursting out']. How she could have 
the audacity, the — 

Poujade. What audacity is there in saying 
that Monsieur Champanet is in love with Gene- 
vieve? What if he does make love to her — so 
long as he intends to marry her? It's plain 
enough that's what he wants to do. Ask Prosper 
what he thinks of it all? 

CoTTiN. What? Does my wife say that? 
That's outrageous ! It's only a trick to hide some- 
thing else ! 

Poujade [laughing]. The idea! You are in 
a bad humor! You'll kill the lot of us without 
turning a hair ! 

CoTTiN [confidingly]. I say, Poujade, that 
Champanet is Nathalie's lover ! Now do you un- 
derstand? 

Poujade [smiling]. Another of your ideas! 
You're jealous! 

CoTTiN. You fool, I know it! I'm sure! 
Didn't you see them kiss just now? Right in 
front of us ! 

Poujade [surprised]. Nonsense! 

CoTTiN. I was already suspicious; I noticed 
little signs between them, a word or two now and 
then — I was on the lookout. That gentleman 
has always been a little too nice; he's taking too 
much interest in Dodo's education! I began to 

ii6 



THE SERENADE 



have doubts. I kept my eyes open to-night with- 
out saying anything. Now I have sure proof. 

PoujADE. You're making too much of this, 
Cottin; you're too jealous — you only want to 
make sure of what you suspect. Why didn't you 
ever suspect me of being in love with your wife ? 

Cottin. No, Poujade, you're an honorable 
man; I'd never think that of you. But that 
damned peacock, with his fine conversation, I tell 
you, I'm sure about him. I've seen! 

Poujade [seriously]. Then you ought to 
have killed him ! 

Cottin [shrugging his shoulders]. There you 
are all over again ! Kill him ! You don't kill a 
man like that, right off 1 I'm not a soldier; have I 
got the weapons? 

Poujade [walking away from Cottin]. Kill 
him any way ! Use your feet, your fists — knock 
him over the head with a club! Good God! 
[Coming hack to Cottin.] What are you going 
to do? 

Cottin. I'm going to tell him — what a low 
trick he's done, and then — well, I won't allow 
him around on any pretext. And if I find him 
with my wife again — 

Poujade. Well? 

Cottin [gravely]. He'll have me to deal 
with! 

Poujade. That may do for him, but how 
about your wife — ? 

Cottin [hesitating]. She — that's a hard 
question; I want to punish her in a way she won't 
soon forget. 

Poujade [firmly]. Kill her. 
117 



FOUR PLAYS 



CoTTiN. Poujade, how can you say that? 
Think! 

Poujade [returning, sits by the table^. The 
moment you talk of extreme measures — why, 
that's the only thing to do ! If you're too weak 
to do that, divorce her, old man, or else — 

CoTTiN [rising]. Why, I can't do that! 
Think of the scandal, and the talk ! It would ruin 
the business, not to mention — [He sits down 
again on the chair, center.'] 

[Maxime appears on the porch, cooling himself 
after the dance. He goes toward the table 
where Cottin and Poujade are conversing.] 

Maxime. Messieurs, the ladies have asked me 
to tell you that they are starting a game where all 
will be needed; they want you to come in and be 
banker. 

Poujade [aside to Cottin]. Be a man now; 
this is your chance ! 

Cottin [aside, turning his back to Maxime]. 
Not now : later ! 

Poujade [aside to Cottin]. No, now! It's 
high time ! 

Maxime. What shall I tell the ladies? 

Poujade. They're in no hurry. Sit down a 
little while here : Cottin has a few words to say to 
you. 

Maxime. At your service. [He sits down.] 

Poujade. He would like to ask you a ques- 
tion. A friend of ours has had trouble in his 
family — he learned that his wife had a lover. 

Cottin [aside to Poujade]. Oh, Poujade, not 
now! 

Poujade [aside to Cottin]. Leave it to me! 
ii8 



THE SERENADE 



[To Maxime.] Our friend learned the truth, and 
now he wants to punish his wife and the lover very 
severely. You are a man of experience; how was 
adultery punished in ancient times? 

CoTTiN [aside to Poujade]. There you are, 
using strong words ! 

Maxime. Well, they were primitive enough in 
those days; sometimes the victims were drawn and 
quartered; some were drowned, some bound to the 
tails of horses, others were stripped and left to die 
out-of-doors. The punishments varied according 
to the development of civilization. Our civiliza- 
tion, for instance, takes the attitude that in the ma- 
jority of cases the husband is to blame; the erring 
wife is nearly always forgiven. [Cottin rises, and 
walks about iip-stage.'] Before advising your 
friend, I must know something about him, and find 
out how much he is to blame. 

PoujADE. So you don't admit that the hus- 
band has a right to kill the lover? 

Maxime. Never ! In good everyday French 
that is called murder. You must judge these 
things not according to the anger of the husband; 
furthermore, you can't do justice yourself in these 
cases! 

Cottin [who has slowly advanced toward Max- 
ime^. I see. Monsieur Champanet, that you ad- 
vise mercy; I agree with you. My reasons are not 
the same as yours, but I think we agree at bottom. 

PoujADE [_aside to Cottin^. Go on, give it to 
him! 

Cottin. Monsieur, this evening as I was in the 
hallway up-stairs, I saw a man come out of my 
wife's room. 



119 



FOUR PLAYS 



onl 



PoujADE [aside to Cottin]. Go on ! 

CoTTiN. That man of course was you: my 
son's tutor, a friend of my family, a man In whom 
I had the greatest confidence ! 

Maxime [rising^]. Why, Monsieur Cottin, I 
don't see the joke ! You think me capable — ? 

Cottin. I saw you. Monsieur. Even if a 
man Is cowardly enough to deceive and outrage a 
man, he ought at least to have courage enough to 
take the responsibility for what he has done ! 

PoujADE [aside to Cottin], Bravo, Cottin! 

Maxime. Now, Monsieur Cottin, let me — 

Cottin. No, Monsieur, no explanations ! 
You are my wife's lover ! Deny It If you dare ! 
Maxime retreats, howing.~\ 

^oujADE [rising with clenched fists]. Oh, If I 

y — ! 

Maxime. Very well, Monsieur — I — I ac- 
knowledge it: I've abused your confidence, your 
friendship — my life is at your disposal — 

Cottin. What shall I do about It? 

Maxime. Whatever you like. Only listen to 
me first ! 

Cottin [quivering with anger]. No, Mon- 
sieur, I don't want to hear another word from you ; 
you've lost the right to speak in the house that 
you've dishonored. I don't want to hear you, or 
see you; your damned fine words and your open 
honest face — they're all lies ! So you make me a 
present of your life! Fine compensation. Isn't it, 
for taking away what was dearest In the world 
to me!? 

[Dodo appears on the porch, and shouts:] 

Dodo. Papa, Monsieur Poujade, Monsieur 

I20 



THE SERENADE 



Maxime; Mama wants to know if you'll be much 
longer? Everything's all ready; they're waiting 
for you ! 

CoTTiN [between his teeth]. I only want to 
hear that you were for a moment carried away — 
you didn't know what you were doing — that, that 
the whole affair only lasted a short while ! 

Dodo [stamping with his feet]. Papa, they're 
waiting! Come right now! 

[Dodo skips back indoors.] 

CoTTiN [seriously]. His life! If I took it 
would I be any better off? Could I ever forget 
what I have suffered this past week? And after 
this night? You can't understand what I feel in 
a case like this; I've been honest and upright in 
my business all my life, and now to have my 
wife — I believed her so good, so pure ! — the 
mother of my children — and this blackguard ! 
To think that my wife, whom I have respected and 
loved for twenty years, is no better than a woman 
of the streets ! 

[He falls into a chair.] 

PoujADE. Come, come, Cottin, courage ! 
You need it now more than ever ! 

[Mme. Cottin descends the stairs from the 
porch, and goes quickly to Cottin.] 

Mme. Cottin. Oh, you men! What's the 
matter? Afraid of thieves again? 

Maxime [aside to Mme. Cottin]. Madame, 
Monsieur Cottin knows everything! 

Mme. Cottin [aside to Maxime]. You told 
him ! I thought you were more of a man ! 
You're a fool! 

Maxime [to Mme. Cottin]. He saw us. 

121 



FOUR PLAYS 



Mme. Cottin [to Maxime], Deny it any- 
way! 

PoujADE [hesitatingly, to Cottin]. You've 
begun now, Cottin, better get it over with at once ! 

Cottin [solemnly]. Madame, eighteen years 
ago, when I married you, you were a young girl 
who had to work hard for a living; you lived with 
your mother in a little room in the Rue Vielle-du- 
Temple. You were well educated, that's true, bet- 
ter than girls of your position usually are, but on 
my side — 

Mme. Cottin [impatiently]. Yes, yes, come 
to the point! 

Cottin. The point is this, Madame: in re- 
turn for my kindness, my love for you, my confi- 
dence in you, you have deceived me, you have for- 
gotten your duties as wife, as the mother of my 
children and — 

Mme. Cottin. Continue, dear, you're getting 
very interesting. You might think we were at the 
Ambigu.^ There's nothing funnier than to see a 
serious and reasonable man talking the way you 
are now. 

Cottin. Stop it ! I'll have no more of your 
impudence! I'm not myself, I tell you — just 
now! 

Mme. Cottin [sarcastically]. You! Non- 
sense ! When did you change ? Now, Theodore, 
dear little Theodore, don't use strong language 
and don't get angry. Don't you see that people 
have been playing a joke on you, telling this ab- 
surd story? They've fooled you, because you're 
a big jealous boy ! Ask Poujade ! 

- A famous theater where melodramas used to be performed. 
122 



THE SERENADE 



CoTTiN [very excitedly^. You're no better 
than a prostitute ! 

Mme. Cottin. Sweet and flattering! 

CoTTiN. Don't I know what I've seen with 
my own eyes?! Was I mistaken?! Your lover 
confessed to me. Did he He? Is everybody a 
Har?! And now you come along with only your 
word ? ! Do you think I'm going to take this lying 
down? Am I an idiot? 

Mme. Cottin. Idiot or not, you're a fool to 
believe everything that's told you, and then invent 
the rest yourself ! 

Cottin. I imagined the whole thing? I tell 
you, I saw Monsieur steal out of your room last 
night? Was I crazy? 

Mme. Cottin. Last night? 

Cottin. Yes, Madame, last night! At four 
in the morning ! You know it as well as I ! 

PoujADE [to himself]. Catch them red- 
handed and they'd cry their innocence to Heaven! 

Mme. Cottin [laughing]. Last night! I 
swear by anything you want that not a single per- 
son put foot in my room last night ! 

Cottin [with composure]. Madame, I can't 
listen to any more of this. I thought that per- 
haps you were both — forgetful, for a moment — 
that you — slipped — I should have been glad to 
have you repent. But I see you're both guiltier 
than I had thought. 

Mme. Cottin. But, Theodore, I swear 
you're wrong! You must be dreaming! Mon- 
sieur was not in my room ! [ Turning to Max- 
ime.] Why don't you defend yourself. Mon- 
sieur? 

123 



FOUR PLAYS 



Maxime [embarrassed]. No matter what you 
may think, Monsieur, I must really — 

CoTTiN [to Maxime]. Shut up! That's all 
you must really do ! 

[Genevieve comes to the drawing-room win- 
dow, leans out of it, and listens.] 

CoTTiN [to his wife]. Nathalie! Your de- 
fense is useless ! You can't have any feelings, for 
your children or your husband! To receive a 
lover in your room ! A room that even I respect, 
a room that connects with your daughter's room! 

Mme. Cottin. Now, dear, I — 

CoTTiN. . You never thought that your own 
daughter might — ! You're worse than the 
worst! You ought to be this moment on your 
knees, and not try to find new lies — everything 
condemns you. — He was with you yesterday ! 

[Genevieve leaves the window, closing it, and 
disappears quickly.] 

Mme. Cottin [violently]. Do you want to 
know the truth, Theodore, the whole truth? 
Well, here it is, and God pity you ! Monsieur 
Maxime is my lover, and yesterday is not the first 
time I've received him. But — we've not seen 
each other for over a week! So there! Isn't 
that true, Maxime? [Maxime acknowledges this 
by a bow of the head.] You see?! 

Cottin [overcome]. I don't care where or 
when — I know more now than I wanted to know 
— keep the other details ! It's enough that I'm 
positive you have a lover. If you want to parade 
your shame, do it, but not here ! My children are 
not going to have such an example of mother-love 
near them! Well, [Authoritatively.] you're going 

124 



THE SERENADE 



to leave here at once, both of you; we'll find some 
excuse to tell the others ! Neither of you is going 
to set foot in this house again. Only honest peo- 
ple have a right here ! 

Mme. Cottin. Theodore! 

Maxime. Monsieur, listen to me — 

Cottin. Haven't I the right to kill them both, 
Poujade? I don't want to have any scandal, I 
tell you. So get out ! I'm not going to have you 
around here ! Out with you — into the streets, 
anywhere — I don't care ! 

[Mme, Cottin goes upstage; Maxime retreats 
a few steps. 

Genevieve comes in and throws herself at her 
father's feet.] 

Genevieve. Papa ! Forgive her, Papa ! 

Maxime. Genevieve ! 

Cottin [to his wife]. Don't you want the 
earth to swallow you up, when you see your 
daughter, your pure and innocent daughter ask 
forgiveness for you? ! Get up, Genevieve darling, 
your mother Is not worth kneeling for. She has 
soiled our love, yours and mine ! But you, you 
are my consolation — your father needs you now ! 

Poujade [going to Cottin]. For God's sake, 
man, brace up ! Don't give In now ! 

Genevieve. Papa, please, don't accuse 
Mama — she's not to blame — 

Maxime [advancing to Cottin]. Monsieur 
Cottin, one word — 

Cottin. Silence! My dear child, things are 
happening now that you can't understand. I must 
be firm — leave me! Don't make it harder; go 
back and play your games. 

125 



FOUR PLAYS 



Genevieve. Papa, Papa ! I — I am the 
only one who is to blame ! Forgive me! 

CoTTiN. What's this ? 

Genevieve. Maxime — last night — it was 
my room! 

CoTTiN [after a pause'\. Your — room? \ile 
turns to Maxime, who tries to get away.~\ She 
too ! ! You, God — [He siezes Maxime by the 
throat.^ 

PoujADE. Choke him ! 

Genevieve [holding back her father, and cling- 
ing to him]. Papa, don't kill him! He is — 
think of — my — child — ! 

[Genevieve faints. Cottin releases Miaxime. 
Potijade goes to Genevieve, placing her on a 
chair.] 

PoujADE. The last straw ! 

Cottin [cursing them all]. Swine! I'm go- 
ing! Swine! 

[He goes out into the garden and disappears.] 

PoujADE. Help! Help! Hey there! 
Fournier, help ! Water ! 

Mme. Cottin [going to Maxime]. You love 
her? 

Maxime [briefly]. Yes! 

Mme. Cottin [repulsing him]. Coward! 

[She goes to Genevieve. 

Friends and guests enter precipitately from the 
house. DumouUn stops them on the porch.] 

PoujADE. Why do you take so long? Pve 
been waiting half an hour for you? Vinegar! 
Salts! Brandy! The child's fainted! 

[The company disperses; some come down- 
stage by Genevieve.] 
126 



THE SERENADE 



Prosper [coming in at the back^. Made- 
moiselle Genevieve fainted ! \_Furioiisly, to 
Max'une.^ Monsieur, you promised to have an 
explanation with me. I'm waiting for it ! 

Maxime. \_trying to rid himself of Prosper^. 
Mademoiselle Genevieve will be a mother in six 
months ! Make love to her now ! 



[Curtain.] 



127 



ACT III 

[A middle-class dining-room. — Right, a 
porcelain stove; left, a side-hoard. A door at 
the back, and one on each side of the room. — 
A number of pictures adorn the walls; there are 
likewise plates hung from the moldings, exposi- 
tion medals, shields and weapons, framed di- 
plomas, etc. — A table, center, with places for 
three.] 

FouRNiER [alone, philosophizing"]. The pate, 
omelette, chicken — that will be enough if the 
ladies don't get back from the country — but if 
they do — ! Oh, what's the odds? They won't 
be very hungry after that affair yesterday at La 
Varenne ! Think of it — ! 

[He shrugs his shoulders and goes about his busi- 
ness. 

Enter Mme. Cottin hurriedly, followed by 
Genevieve. Both are in traveling attire.] 

Mme. Gottin [excitedly]. Where is he, 
Fournier? He isn't dead, is he, Fournier? Tell 
me ! 

Fournier. No, Madame, Monsieur is here. 

Mme. Cottin. Oh, how relieved I am! 
Genevieve, he's not dead! What's he doing? 

Fournier. Monsieur has locked himself in 
his room since this morning. 

Mme. Cottin. Who's looking after the shop ? 
128 



THE SERENADE 



FouRNiER. Monsieur Poujade and his 
nephew. They're both in a fearful humor; can't 
say a word to them! Monsieur Poujade insulted 
me twice this morning, twice! I warn Madame, 
if this continues I shan't stay ! 

Mme. Cottin. But have you seen Monsieur 
this morning? 

FouRNiER. No, Madame; when Monsieur 
Poujade and I arrived by the first train, Monsieur 
was already in his room. 

\^He goes up behind the table.~\ 

Mme. Cottin [to Genevieve]. What can he 
do now? 

Genevieve [frightened], I don't know: 
write? 

Mme. Cottin. He might kill himself — hang, 
asphyxiate himself — anything ! 

FouRNiER [reassuringly]. I don't think Mon- 
sieur contemplates suicide ! 

Mme. Cottin. Never mind, Fournier; try to 
find out what he's doing. Stop him, don't let him 
do any harm to himself ! 

Fournier. Very well, Madame, I'll keep 
watch. 

[He goes out.] 

Mme. Cottin [to Genevieve, who sits down, 
overcome]. Poor Papa, poor Theodore! My 
poor child, what have you done ! How could you 
do such a thing, you a child we had so much trouble 
to educate ! We spared nothing for you, at the 
convent, the expensive boarding-school! You 
were so modest ! Every time you heard a vulgar 
expression you lowered your eyes ! And now we 
find that Mademoiselle — so that's what your — 

129 



FOUR PLAYS 



Genevieve [intrepidly]. But, Mama, how 
was I to know — ? 

MxME. COTTIN [excitedlyl. What you didn't 
know ! Haven't I told you twenty times that you 
should have no secrets from your mother? That 
when a young man said things to you you should 
let me know, and in any case never answer when he 
made declarations to you ! We never tired of din- 
ning it into your ears that all young men try to ruin 
young girls — that you've got to shun them like the 
plague ! You should never, never believe their 
oaths and promises. And then if a young lady 
happens to take a fancy to a young man, is that 
any reason why — ? 

Genevieve. No, Mama, I meant to say — I 
meant if I'd known you loved him already — 

Mme. Cottin. Since when does a mother have 
to explain her actions to her daughter? And es- 
pecially in a case like this? For that matter, I'm 
not — but think of the awful situation for you ! 
How can you hope to marry ? Who will take you ? 

Genevieve [rising]. Maxime! He's prom- 
ised! 

Mme. Cottin. Promised!? [Aside.] He's 
more underhanded than I thought him ! The 
traitor! 

Genevieve [with growing excitement]. Any- 
way, is there anything so out of the way in a young 
man's loving his fiancee before their marriage? 
So long as they do intend to get married? It was 
so exciting to have him make love to me in secret 
— and he was so nice about it ! I loved him at 
once, dreamed about him, thought of nothing in the 
world but him! One night, perhaps you remem- 

130 



THE SERENADE 



ber? It was so beautiful, he recited the Serenade to 
us, so sweetly and softly, I was in Heaven ! Then 
he came and whispered in my ear; I couldn't inter- 
rupt him; he talked so wonderfully! I was his 
from that time on; he could ask anything of me! 
Well, he asked me to come to his rooms the next 
day for my lesson — and I went ! 

Mme. Cottin [sitting down, overcome']. The 
monster ! I suspected something of the kind, but 
I never thought he would dishonor you ! 

Genevieve. There's nothing dishonorable — 
Louise Bignolet — 

Mme. Cottin. What about Louise Bignolet? 

Genevieve. She had a baby before she was 
married, and Hortense had a — lover when she 
was still in boarding-school. Get married after- 
ward, and everything's all right ! Of course, there 
is a difference ! 

Mme. Cottin. What? 

Genevieve [in an undertone]. Louise didn't 
have a mother! 

Mme. Cottin [hiding her face]. What a 
curse ! It's like Fate ! 

Genevieve [going to her mother, tenderly]. 
Mama — 

Mme. Cottin [rises, thrusting Genevieve 
aside]. Don't! My dearest child ! I hear some 
one ! It's probably your father ! Run away, 
Genevieve, please leave us alone. 

Genevieve. But, Mama — ! 

Mme. Cottin. Go! [Genevieve goes out.] 
Oh, God, give me the strength to persuade him ! 

[Enter Maxime in great haste.] 

Maxime. What's happened? 
131 



FOUR PLAYS 



Mme. Cottin [running to him'\. Maxime! 
He'll kill you! 

Maxime. Let him kill me! I've already 
given him my life to dispose of I 

Mme. Cottin. Maxime, don't provoke him ! 
When a quiet man like Theodore once loses his 
head you can't tell what he'll do ! Listen : so far 
there's no great harm done. Go away, hide your- 
self somewhere ; don't stay here ! 

Maxime. But I've decided to stay! You 
don't think for a moment I could live away from 
you two ! I'm going to stay ! 

Mme. Cottin [supplicatin^ly']. If I'm noth- 
ing to you any more, then for her sake, for my 
daughter's sake ! 

Maxime [touched^. Why speak of Gene- 
vieve ? 

Mme. Cottin. You love her — you love her 
more than you do me, don't you ? 

Maxime [hesitating]. Yes, I love her, 
but it was always you I loved in her; I adored two 
women in one ! Sometimes she was you, some- 
times you were she — you were both one ! She 
was to me the perfume of the flower, you were the 
fruit ! What a dream — ! Now that it has 
flown, Nathalie, I have only to — die ! 

Mme. Cottin. Maxime — I love you ! 

[Fournier opens the door half -way. ~\ 

FouRNiER. Madame, Monsieur Maxime, 
you'd better go into the bed-room or the draw- 
ing-room — hide yourselves ! Here comes Mon- 
sieur ! 

Maxime [firmly]. Good, we'll have it out 
now! 

132 



THE SERENADE 



Mme. Cottin. Maxime, please come! 

Maxime. I'm going to stay ! 

Mme. Cottin. For Genevieve's sake — for 
the sake of the child, come! 

[^She tries to drag him out.~\ 

Maxime [resisting^. No! 

Cottin's Voice [outside]. Well, Fournier, 
to-day or to-morrow: when you're ready! I'll 
wait! 

Fournier [to Cottin']. I'm coming. Mon- 
sieur, I'm coming. [To Mme. Cottin and Max- 
ime.] You'd better make up your minds — you 
can come back later if you like. Just treat Mon- 
sieur kindly, he's a good-hearted man if you handle 
him right. 

Mme. Cottin. Fournier is right; come, Max- 
ime. 

Maxime [allowing Mme. Cottin to take him 
out into the next room] . Well — if you wish it ! 

Cottin's Voice [outside]. Fournier, are you 
coming to help me ? ! 

[All go out. 

Enter Cottin in his traveling clothes; he does 
not wear his decoration.^ He has valises 
and blankets. Fournier likewise is burdened 
with traveling paraphernalia.] 

Cottin. Put the valise there — the cash-box 
over here ! Now go and get the hat-box — Wait 
a moment, go down to the shop and tell Poujade 
to come up here. 

Fournier. But, Monsieur, lunch isn't ready 
yet. 

1 Municipal honorary titles are indicated by decorations worn 
on the lapel. 



FOUR PLAYS 



CoTTiN. It's not for lunch : I want to see him ! 

[Fournier goes oiit.~\ 

CoTTiN [alone']. Don't want to forget any- 
thing! [He takes a note-book from his pocket.] 
Bills payable for the week: 2500, 120, 1500; 
there's enough in the cash-box. The Champton- 
nerre bill will be paid — Nathalie probably sent 
that! [Raising his head a moment.] God! 
Her deceit! And with a little Latin teacher! 
And I accused him of working Dodo too hard! 
And to have the whole lot fool me, while I — 
damned fool! [Resuming his calculations.] 
All right for bills payable ! I'll see about send- 
ing a power of attorney for the dissolution of 
partnership; advise Poujade to take his nephew as 
partner — Prosper knows a good bit about busi- 
ness ! Poor fellow, he loved Nini ! There's the 
man she ought to have married ! They'd have 
carried on the business — '' Cottin and Poujade " ! 
— they'd have made a mighty happy couple — 
and now! [He rises.] Work and sweat your 
life out for your children ! — The house in the 
country, furniture, they can do what they like with 
them! I don't want to hear about them again! 
[Center.] And to have a thing like this happen 
to me, the calmest and easiest-going fellow ! To 
me, the head of a family ! Me, an honorable busi- 
ness man! There's not a person in Paris can say 
a word against the firm ! And here I am forced 
to run away like a bankrupt, and hide myself! 
Oh, Nathahe, how you've abused my confidence, 
my love ! 

[Enter Poujade.] 

134 



THE SERENADE 



PoujADE. What's the matter, old man, are 
you going away? 

CoTTiN. Dear old Poujade, yes, I'm going 
away. I've been thinking the whole matter over 
— I wandered about last night, trying to decide 
whether to jump into the Marne or hang myself in 
the Bois de Vincennes. At sunrise, I found my- 
self in Paris. I was afraid and ashamed of my- 
self. I said it would be foolish to benefit the 
others in that way, for an honest man to kill him- 
self and let the true culprits live. I don't want to 
be around the place where I've been dishonored, 
so I'm going away: abroad, to America. I don't 
know where ! Here's a letter giving you final in- 
structions about my affairs. [He gives Poujade 
the letter.'] 

Poujade [refusing to take it]. Why, it's im- 
possible ! 

CoTTlN. My dear friend, I simply can't stand 
all this; another shock like yesterday, and I'd go 
crazy. I'd much better go away. 

Poujade. It's not so bad as that! Just look 
at it calmly ! 

CoTTiN. Calmly! Ha! What would you 
do, calmly, if you were in my shoes? ! 

Poujade [hesitating]. In your shoes? First 
I'd have killed everybody, and then considered 
later. But as you didn't have the strength of 
character to do that, it's — a bit difficult. Let's 
think it over! 

CoTTiN. Think as much as you like ; the more 
I think of it, the worse it seems. One of us has 
to go — I'll sacrifice myself ! 

135 



FOUR PLAYS 



PoujADE. You haven't the least idea what 
you're thinking or talking about. Listen to me: 
things aren't so bad as you make them out. For 
the sake of your daughter's reputation you've got 
to force the man who ruined her to marry her — 
you have a legal right to kill him! It's very 
simple : marry them, forgive your daughter, legit- 
imize the child, and then kill the man afterward if 
you want to ! 

CoTTiN. Kill him ! [ Trying to evade the 
question.^ What if she loves him? 

Pou JADE. She wouldn't love a man like that ! 

CoTTiN. She's a child, she doesn't know any- 
thing about life ! 

PoujADE. Then it doesn't make a bit of dif- 
ference one way or the other. Now, about your 
wife. 

CoTTlN. Don't talk about her! She's dis- 
graced me! I don't want to see her again! 

PoujADE. Kill her ! 

CoTTiN \^outraged^. Once more, Poujade, 
we're not butchers here. You keep on telling 
me to kill her ! Arrests ! Scandal ! Gossip ! 
Trials ! Have that happen to a man who's led a 
decent and honorable life for half a century! 
No, no, not that! I don't want to hear anything 
more! You can look after the business! Sell 
it, make your own terms, I don't care! [Going 
to the door and calling.^ Fournier, bring my 
baggage! [To Poujade, as he extends his hand 
to him.'] Good-by, old man! 

Poujade [turning his hack to Cottin~\. I see 
through your trick — you don't want to hear — 
no ! ! You're leaving me your wife and daugh- 

136 



THE SERENADE 



ter, your business, and then tell me, " Fix it up as 
well as you can! " What if I went away, too? 

CoTTiN. Can't you understand, the very sight 
of this place is poison to me ! ? Hurry, Nathalie 
may come in any moment ! Now read that. [He 
hands him the letter.^ I'm going! [He goes to- 
ward the door.'] Fournier! Fournier! 

[In coming back, he catches sight of his wife, 
who has just entered.] 

Mme. Cottin [holding a handkerchief to her 
eyes]. Theodore! 

Cottin [in despair]. You see, Poujade? 
What did I tell you ? 

Mme. Cottin [tearfully]. Theodore, if a 
guilty woman has any right to be heard, listen to 
me — please ! ! 

[Cottin turns around and makes as if to go 
out.] 

Poujade. Listen to what she has to say, Cot- 
tin! 

Cottin [firmly]. Never! 

Mme. Cottin [falling to her knees]. Theo- 
dore ! 

Cottin [with dignity]. Don't imagine, Ma- 
dame, I am one of those men you can soften by 
tears ! Don't deceive yourself by thinking I'll be- 
lieve your story! How do I know you haven't 
always been faithless to me — since we were mar- 
ried? How do I know you're not acting a part 
this minute? No, I won't listen! 

Mme. Cottin. Theodore, don't go away! 
Do anything you want to me; I'll bear it. I 
know I don't deserve to be forgiven, you ought 
to punish me — if you do, I'll not complain. I'm 

137 



FOUR PLAYS 



asking you, Imploring you, for Genevieve's sake, 
not mine ! 

CoTTiN [brutally'\. I forbid you to mention 
her name in my presence ! Your own daughter 
that you gave to your lover! 

Mme. Cottin. Oh! 

CoTTiN. I took you to be my faithful part- 
ner; you deceived me. Therefore I have nothing 
more to do with you ! Go back to the miserable 
life you lived before I married you! But Gene- 
vieve is my daughter, my own flesh and blood, 
she's dearest to me of anything on earth — and 
you've ruined her! Don't drag her in! I won't 
let you ! 

Mme. Cottin. I'm not trying to drag her in ! 
It's just for her happiness ! 

[Enter Fournier.^ 

FouRNiER. Monsieur called me? 

Cottin. Yes; take my bags down-stairs. 

PoujADE. Cottin, think it over! Don't do 
anything rash! 

Cottin [/o Poujade~\. I'm going to be firm! 
[To Fournier.'] Do what I tell you! [To 
Mme. Cottin.^ You — say what you have to 
say, at once ! I'm in a hurry ! 

[Fournier goes out.^ 

Mme. Cottin [rising']. Why are you leav- 
ing? 

Cottin. That's my affair ! I know what I'm 
going to do. 

Mme. Cottin. Then you're leaving us all ! 
If you leave your daughter, what'll become of 
her? Without any one to look after her — and 
her child? 

138 



THE SERENADE 



CoTTiN. She will have you ! You've guided 
her beautifully so far — ! It will serve you 
right ! 

Mme. Cottin [after a pause~\. Genevieve is 
your child, your own flesh and blood! Do you 
want her to be the laughing-stock of the whole 
neighborhood? And you! your daughter, with 
her bastard, do you want her to be driven to the 
streets ? 

Cottin [defending himself^. Of course — I 
don't want her to be — 

PoujADE. Well, if you leave — 

Cottin [after a pause'\. If I leave, that's no 
reason why — 

Mme. Cottin. You don't want it to be said, 
Tlieodore, that you, the honorable Monsieur Cot- 
tin, drove his daughter into a shameful life — just 
because of his pride ! 

PoujADE [to Cottin']. Pure selfishness, I call 
it! 

Cottin [after a pause]. You think so? 

PoujADE. Yes. Don't you see, Genevieve 
will still bear your name? 

Mme. Cottin. You're shirking your duties as 
a father! 

Cottin [sitting down, his hands pressed to his 
forehead]. Tell me, then, advise me, what shall 
I do? 

Mme. Cottin. Marry them. 

PoujADE. Think it over afterward. 

Cottin. Marry them? But what do we 
know of this Champanet? He's a teacher, but 
who is he? Where does he come from? He 
hasn't a sou to his name ! 

139 



FOUR PLAYS 



PoujADE. You haven't got many husbands to 
choose from! 

Mme. Cottin. Monsieur Champanet comes 
from a very good family; some day he'll have a 
noble name, and when his uncle dies he comes in 
for a very respectable fortune. 

Cottin [^nearly convinced']. Yes, yes, that's 
all right. But this man is your lover ! 

Mme. Cottin. So you want to make a scan- 
dal? Everybody knows now that Monsieur 
Champanet is Genevieve's lover. That wouldn't 
lead them to suspect anything else. If you want 
a scandal, very well, make one ! Never mind 
about your daughter and family ! 

Cottin [hesitating']. How about it, Poujade, 
d'you think I ought to marry them off ? 

Poujade. I've told you — Kill 'em afterward 
if you like. 

Mme. Cottin [to Poujade, terrified]. Kill 
Maxime ? ! 

Poujade. Certainly. Hasn't a husband the 
legal right to do that? 

Mme. Cottin. But after the marriage? 

Poujade [aside to Mme. Cottin]. Between 
you and me, marriage makes very little differ- 
ence! 

Mme. Cottin [outraged]. Don't listen to 
him, Theodore, marry them; and then if any one 
has to make a sacrifice, let me ! Pm to blame, her 
mother : I'll go away — go into a nunnery — and 
die there! [She cries.] 

Cottin [after a moment's reflection]. Pou- 
jade, what do you think? 

Poujade. That's one way. 
140 



THE SERENADE 



CoTTiN [deciding, with determination']. 
Well, if everybody wants It, marry them ! 

Mme. Cottin [throwing herself into Cottin's 
arms]. Oh, thank you! thank you! You're a 
saint ! \^She kisses his hands. Cottin rises, opens 
the bedroom door, and his wife speaks to Gene- 
vieve and Maxime.] Come here, children, thank 
your father — he's forgiven you — you can marry 
now! 

[^Enter Genevieve precipitately ; she throws 
herself into her father's arms. Maxime fol- 
lows her and stops at some distance.] 

Genevieve. Oh, Papa, how good you are — 
and how happy I am ! 

Cottin [seriously]. Monsieur, since you have 
already taken my daughter, I give her to you as 
your wife. She Is yours ! Take her away ! 

Maxime [hesitating]. I cannot accept! 

Cottin [amazed]. Why, please? 

Maxime. I — I am not worthy of her. 

Cottin. You — ? 

Maxime. I see very plainly that you despise 
me : you tell me to " take her away " ! When I'm 
her husband you will refuse to see her, you will de- 
spise her because she Is my wife. For the sake of 
your family honor, give her a husband she won't 
have to be ashamed of! 

Cottin. But — the child? 

Maxime. This Is a matter which concerns her 
whole life. 

Cottin [solemnly]. Luckily for us, we don't 
hold the same opinions as you. We have our 
prejudices, and our old-fashioned ideas, and one 
of them is that we Insist on having our children 

141 



FOUR PLAYS 



recognized by the father. You're going to marry 
my daughter to make this possible — as Poujade 
says — I insist, I command ! If my daughter is 
not happy, so much the worse for her ; it's all her 
own doing. I must confess that as a son-in-law, I 
might do worse. And perhaps some day you'll 
live down what you've done, but — 

Genevieve. Papa, we love you so much! 
We'll do anything — 

COTTIN [in an undertone^. And what you've 
done. Monsieur, is — is little better than — in- 
cest! 

Maxime. You see, then. Monsieur, this mar- 
riage is impossible. 

CoTTiN [in great perplexity^. Yes — but 
yet — 

[Enter Fournier.'] 

CoTTiN [suddenly to Fournier^. What do 
you want, Fournier? 

Fournier. To serve lunch; it's twelve 
o'clock. 

CoTTiN. Leave us. — Wait a moment, bring 
up my bags, I'm not going away. 

Fournier [smiling^, I never took them 
down. [He goes oiit.^ 

CoTTiN [considering^. Have them all here 
— in the same house ? With my daughter in her 
position ! Impossible ! Everybody would talk 
about it ! What wouldn't Dumoulin say, and the 
Boulards! 

Maxime. We are going to do our best to live 
down the past. Monsieur Cottin — there's no need 
to send any one away. 

Cottin [to Poujade^. What do you think? 
142 



THE SERENADE 



PoujADE. Do whatever you like; I've told 
you what I think; I wash my hands of the whole 
affair. 

CoTTiN. Genevieve is not so much to blame 
— I forgive her — she didn't know. [Indicating 
Maxime.'] Perhaps I can forgive you some day. 
And to think of the havoc you made in my home, 
with my — ! [Looking at his wife.~\ Nathalie, 
you are bound to me by oaths — Maxime swore 
nothing! — my honor, the honor of the family — 
they were in your keeping. A man can't forget 
those things soon! 

PoujADE [shrugging his shoulders]. Why 
not her too, while you're at it! ! 

CoTTlN. You really — ? 

Genevieve [kissing her father']. Dear, dear 
Papa! 

CoTTiN [moved]. They're all against me! 
[He puts his hand over his eyes and sobs.] 
Nathalie ! 

Mme. Cottin [kissing his hand]. You're 
good! You're generous ! 

PoujADE [cynically]. I thought so ! 

Cottin [to Maxime, who takes Genevieve by 
the hand]. You have a great deal to answer 
for! 

[Enter Prosper hastily.] 

Prosper. Monsieur, the Count de Melimbec 
has come again for his chronometer. He insists 
on seeing you ! 

Cottin [with resignation]. Tell him to go to 
the devil! To-day I'm going to be with my fam- 
ily — my daughter is going to be married. [With 
a sigh.] 

143 



FOUR PLAYS 



Prosper [with amazement^. Mademoiselle 
Genevieve — ! 

CoTTiN [^0 Prosper]. That's so, poor Pros- 
per! We forgot about you altogether. [He 
holds out his hand to him.] 

Mme. CoTTiN. Dear Prosper! 

Genevieve. Poor Monsieur Prosper! 

PoujADE [who has gone to his nephew; aside 
to him]. Happy Prosper! 

CoTTiN [a little cheered up]. Well, he'll be 
of the family anyway, we'll give him cousin Bou- 
lard, won't we? Cousin Boulard! Nice little 
Celina ! I think you'll hit it off nicely, you two ! 

PoujADE [aside]. Yes, that's a wonderful 
plan, you old — ! 

CoTTiN [to Poujade, slapping him on the 
shoulder]. You mountain bear, see, you don't 
have to cut throats to have things turn out beau- 
tifully! Nobody's dead. [Gravely.] Only I 
make one condition to this marriage [All surround 
Cottin] and that is that nothing's to be said about 
it. We needn't have the neighborhood gossip- 
ing! Ah! [He puts his decoration hack in his 
button-hole.] Now, let's have lunch, children! 
Fournier, three more places and some of our best 
wine: we don't marry our daughters off every 
day — ! [Fournier sets the extra places, and the 
company sits at the table.] 

Mme. Cottin [simply, to Maxime]. Sit by 
me — son-in-law ! 



[Curtain.] 



144 



Francois e' Luck 

iLa Chance de Francoise) 

A Comedy in One Act 

By 
GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE 

TRANSLATED BY 

BARRETT H. CLARK 



Presented for the first time, in Paris, at the 
Theatre Libre, December lo, 1888. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED: 

CAST AT 

Theatre Libre 

Marcel Desroches Henri Mayer 

GuERiN Laury 

Jean Antoine 

Fran^oise Mmes. Sigall 

Madeleine Lucy Manvel 

CAST AT 

Gymnase 

Marcel Desroches Pierre Achard 

GuERiN M. Breant 

Jean L. Debray 

Francoise Mmes. Julia Depoix 

Madeleine Silviac 

CAST AT 

Comedie-Franqaise 

Marcel Desroches .Le Bargy 

GuERiN Laroche 

Jean Falconnier 

Francoise Mmes. Bertiny 

Madeleine Ludwig 

The scene is Auteuil. The time is the present. 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 

lA studio. At the hack is a door opening 
upon a garden; doors to the right and left; also 
a small inconspicuous door to the left. There 
are a few pictures on easels. The table is lit- 
tered with papers y books, weapons, bric-a-brac, 
here and there; chairs and sofas. It is eleven 
o^ clock in the morning.^ 

pRANgoiSE \_a small woman, frail, with a mel- 
ancholy look, at times rather mocking. As the 
curtain rises she is alone. She raises and lowers 
the window-blind from time to time~\. A little 
more! There! Oh, the sunlight! How blind- 
ing! \_Glancing at the studio with an air of sat- 
isfaction.'] How neat everything is! [/w at- 
tempting to take something from the table, she 
knocks some papers to the floor,] Well! [^See- 
ing a letter, among the papers which she is 
picking up.] A letter! From M. Guerin — 
[Reading.] " My dear friend, why do you pisr- 
sist in keeping silence? You say very little of 
the imprudent woman who has dared to become 
the companion of the handsome Marcel! Do 
you recompense her for her confidence in you, 
for her courage? You are not at all like other 
men: your frivolity, if you will permit the term, 
your — " [Interrupting herself.] He writes the 
word! [Continuing.] "Your cynicism makes 
me tremble for you. Absent for a year! How 

149 



FOUR PLAYS 



much friendship is gone to waste I Why were we 
thrust apart the moment you were married? 
Why did my wife's health make sunlight an abso- 
lute necessity for her? We are now leaving 
Rome; in a month I'll drop in on you at Au- 
teuil — " [Interrupting herself again.'] Very 
soon! 

[Marcel appears at the back.] 

" I am very impatient to see you, and very anx- 
ious to see Madame Desroches. I wonder 
whether she will take to me? I hope she will. 
Take care, you ruffian, I shall cross-question her 
carefully, and if I find the slightest cloud in her 
happiness, her friend-to-be will be an angry man." 
[She stops reading, and says to herself, sadly.] 
A friend — I should like that ! 

Marcel [carelessly dressed. He is of the 
type which usually appeals to women]. Ah, in- 
quisitive, you read my letters? 

FRANgoiSE. Oh, it's an old one — 

Marcel [chaffing her]. From Guerin? 

Francoise. I found it there, when I was put- 
ting the studio in order. 

Marcel [tenderly]. The little romantic child 
is looking for a friend? 

Francoise. I have so much to tell, so much 
about my recent happiness ! 

Marcel. Am I not that friend? 

Francoise. You are the man I love. Should 
I consult with you, when your happiness is at 
stake ? 

Marcel. Too deep for me! [Yawning.] 
Oh, Fm tired — ! 

Francoise. Did you come in late last night? 
150 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



Marcel. Three o'clock. 

pRANgoiSE. You were quiet about it, you 
naughty man ! 

Marcel. Were you jealous? 

pRANgoiSE. The idea ! I am morally certain 
that you love no one except your wife. 

Marcel [sadly]. It's true, I love no one ex- 
cept my wife — 

Fran^oise [chaffing him in turn]. Poor Mar- 
cel! 

Marcel. I was bored to death at that supper ; 
I can't imagine why. — They all tell me Fm get- 
ting stout. 

pRANgoiSE. That's no reason why you 
shouldn't please. 

Marcel. God is very unjust. 

pRANCOiSE. So they say! 

Marcel [stretching out on a sofa]. Excuse 
my appearance, won't you, Prangoise? [Making 
himself comfortable.] I can't keep my eyes open 
any longer nowadays — The days of my youth — 
Why, I was — [He stops.] 

Francoise. You were just the right age for 
marriage. 

Marcel [as if to banish the idea]. Oh! [A 
pause.] Fm sure you will get along well with 
Guerin. Yours are kindred spirits — you're alike 
— not in looks, however. 

Francoise. Morally, you mean ? 

Marcel. Yes — Fm flattering him by the 
comparison. 

Francoise. He's like this, then: sentimental, 
a good friend, and an honest man. Yes, I think 
I shall get along nicely with him. 

151 



FOUR PLAYS 



Marcel. What a sympathetic nature you 
have ! You've never seen him, and you know him 
already. 

FRANgoiSE. How long has he been married? 

Marcel. He was born married! 

Francoise. Tell me. 

Marcel. Ten years, I think. 

Francoise. He's happy? 

Marcel. Very. 

Francoise. What sort of woman is she? 

Marcel. Lively. 

Francoise. Though virtuous ? 

Marcel. So they say. 

Francoise. Then Madame Guerin and the 
handsome Martel — eh ? 

Marcel. A friend's wife? 

Francoise. It's very tempting — [Marcel 
seems to take this in had spirit; he is about to put 
on his hat.~\ Are you going out? 

Marcel. I lunch at the club. 

Francoise. Very well. 

Marcel. I'm all — a little nervous ; I need a 
breath of air. 

Francoise. Paris air ! 

Marcel. Precisely. 

Francoise. And your work — ? 

Marcel. I'm not in the mood. 

Francoise. There's only ten days before the 
Salon : you'll never be ready. 

Marcel. What chance have I, with my tal- 
ent? 

Francoise. You have a great deal of talent 
— it's recognized everywhere. 
Marcel. I did have — 
152 



FRANCOISE' LUCK 



[J pause.] 

Francoise. Will you be home for dinner? 

Marcel [tenderly]. Of course! And don't 
let any black suspicions get the better of you : I'm 
not lunching with anybody ! 

pRANgoiSE. I suspect you?! 

Marcel [gratefully]. 'Til later, then! [A 
pause. Frankly.] Of course, I don't always go 
where I tell you I'm going. Why should I worry 
you ? But if you think I — do what I ought not 
to do, you are mistaken. I'm no longer a bach- 
elor, you know. 

Francoise. Just a trifle, aren't you? 

Marcel. No jealousy, dear ! The day of ad- 
ventures is dead and buried. Thirty-five mortal 
years, scarcity of hair, a noticeable rotundity, and 
married! Opportunities are fewer now! 

Francoise [playfully]. Don't lose courage, 
your luck may return — A minute would suffice. 

Marcel [mournfully]. I don't dare hope. 

Francoise. Married ! You were never fated 
to be a proprietor, you are doomed to be a ten- 
ant. 

Marcel [as he is about to leave, he sees a tele- 
gram on the table]. Oh, a telegram, and you 
said nothing to me about it ! 

Francoise. I didn't see It. Jean must have 
brought it while you were asleep. 

Marcel. From Passy! I know that hand! 
[_Aside, with surprise.] Madame Guerin — 
Madeleine! Well! [Reading.] "My dear 
friend, I lunch to-day with my aunt Madame de 
Monglat, at La Muette — as I used to. Come 
and see me before noon, I have serious things to 

^S3 



FOUR PLAYS 



talk over with you." [He stops reading; aside, 
much pleased.'] A rendezvous ! And after three 
years ! Poor Guerin ! — No ! It wouldn't be de- 
cent, now ! No ! 

pRANgoiSE [aside]. He seems to be waking 
up ! 

Marcel [aside]. They must have returned! 
Frangolse was right — ^ a minute would suffice ! 
The dear girl! 

Francoise. No bad news? 

Marcel [in spite of himself]. On the con- 
trary! 

Francoise. Oh ! 

Marcel [embarrassed]. It's from that Amer- 
ican woman who saw my picture the other day 
■ — at Goupil's, you remember? She insists that 
I give it to her for ten thousand francs. I really 
think I'll let her have it. Nowadays you never 
can tell — 

pRANgoiSE. I think you would be very wise 
to sell. 

Marcel [handing her the telegram]. Don't 
you believe me ? 

Francoise. Absolutely. 

[Marcel puts the telegram in his pocket, A 
pause.] 

Marcel [hesitating before he leaves; aside]. 
She's a darling; a perfect little darling. 

Francoise. Then you're not going out? 

Marcel [surprised]. Do you want to send 
me away? 

Francoise. If you're going out to lunch, you 
had better hurry — the train leaves in a few min- 
utes. 

154 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



Marcel \_becoming suddenly affectionate^. 
How can I hurry when you are so charming? 
You're adorable this morning! 

Francoise. D'you think so? 

[A pause.^ 

Marcel [aside]. Curious, but every time I 
have a rendezvous, she's that way ! 

Francoise. Good-by, then; I've had enough 
of you! If you stay you'll upset all my plans. 
I'd quite made up my mind to be melancholy and 
alone. It's impossible to be either gay or sad with 
you ! Run along ! 

Marcel [taking off his hat, which he had put 
on some moments before]. I tell you this is my 
house, and this my studio. Your house is there 
by the garden. 

Francoise. Yes, it's only there that you are 
my husband. 

Marcel [contradicting her]. Oh! [Rt- 
proachfully, and with tenderness.] Tell me, 
Francoise, why don't you ever want to go out with 
me? 

Francoise. You know I don't like society. 

Marcel. I'm seen so much alone ! 

Francoise. So much the better for you; you 
will be taken for a bachelor! 

Marcel. One might think to hear you that 
husband and wife ought never to live together, 

Francoise. Perhaps I should see you oftener 
if we weren't married! 

Marcel. Isn't It a pleasure to you, Madame, 
to be in the arms of your husband? 

Francoise. Isn't it likewise a pleasure to be 
able to say, " He is free, I am not his wife, he 

155 



FOUR PLAYS 



is not my husband; I am not his duty, a millstone 
around his neck; I am his avocation, his love? If 
he leaves me, I know he is tired of me, but if he 
comes back, then I know he loves me." 

Marcel. Francoise, you are an extremist! 

FRANgoiSE. You think so ? 

Marcel. You are! 

FRANgoiSE. And then — ? 

Marcel. I know your philosophy is nothing 
but love. [A pause.'] You cry sometimes, don't 
you? When I'm not here? 

Francoise. Just a little. 

Marcel. I must make you very unhappy! 
When you are sad, don't hide it from me, Fran- 
goise ; one of your tears would force me to do any- 
thing in the world for you. 

Francoise. One, yes! But, many — ? 

Marcel. Don't make fun of me: I am seri- 
ous. If I told you that my affection for you is as 
great as yours, I — 

Francoise. You would be lying. 

Marcel. That may be ! But it seems to me 
I adore you ! Every time I leave you, I feel so 
lonely; I wander about like a lost soul! I think 
that something must be happening to you. And 
when I come home at midnight, and open the door, 
I feel an exquisite sensation — Is that love? 
You ought to know — you are so adept ! 

Francoise. Perhaps. 

Marcel [unthinkingly]. You know, Fran- 
Qoise, one can never be sure of one's self. 

Francoise. Of course! 

Marcel. No one can say, " I love to-day, and 

156 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



I shall love to-morrow." You no more than any 
one else. 

pRANgoiSE [offended]. I? 

Marcel. How can you tell, whether in fif- 
teen years — ? 

Francoise. Oh, I'm a little child — I'm dif- 
ferent from the others — I shall always love the 
same man all his life. But go on, you were say- 
ing — ? 

Marcel. Nothing. I want you to be happy, 
in spite of everything — no matter what may hap- 
pen — no matter what I may do. 

pRANgoiSE. Even if you should deceive me? 

Marcel [tenderly]. Deceive you? Never! 
I care nothing about other women I You are hap- 
piness — not a mere pastime. 

pRANgoisE. Alas ! 

Marcel. Why alas? 

pRANgoiSE. Because it is easier to do without 
happiness than pleasure. 

Marcel [tenderly]. Oh, you are all that is 
highest and best in my life — I prefer you to 
everything else ! Let a woman come between us, 
and she will have me to deal with ! Call it selfish- 
ness, if you will, or egotism — but your peace of 
mind is an absolute necessity to me ! 

pRANgoiSE. You need not prepare me for the 
future, you bad boy; I resigned myself to " possi- 
bilities " some time ago. I'm inexperienced and 
young in years, but I'm older than you. 

Marcel. Shall I tell you something? I 
never deserved you ! 

pRANgoiSE. That's true. 
157 



FOUR PLAYS 



Marcel. When I think how happy you might 
have made some good and worthy man, and 
that — 

pRANgoiSE. Who then would have made me 
happy? 

Marcel. You are not happy now. 

pRANgoiSE. I didn't marry for happiness; I 
married in order to have you. 

Marcel. I'm a fool! — It would be nice, 
wouldn't it, if I were an unfaithful husband ! 

Francoise. I'm sure you will never be that. 

Marcel. Do you really think so? 

Francoise. I am positive. What would be 
the use in deceiving me? I should be so un- 
happy, and you wouldn't be a bit happier. 

Marcel. You are right. 

Francoise. No, you will not deceive me. 
To begin with, I have a great deal of luck. 

Marcel [^aily']. Of course you have; you 
don't know how much ! 

Francoise [coquettishly]. Tell me! 

Marcel. What a child you are ! 

FRANgoiSE. I've run risks, haven't I? 

Marcel. I should think so! Sometimes I 
imagine that my happiness does not lie altogether 
in those sparkHng eyes of yours, and I try to fall 
in love with another woman; I get deeper and 
deeper for a week or two, and think I am terri- 
bly infatuated. But just as I am about to take 
the fatal leap, I fail: Frangoise' luck, you see! 
At bottom, I'm a commencer; I can't imagine what 
it is that saves me — and you. Sometim.es she 
has done something to displease me, sometimes a 
divine word from your lips — and a mere noth- 

IS8 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



ing, something quite insignificant! For instance, 
Wednesday, I missed the train, and I came back 
and had dinner with you. You see, Frangoise' 
luck! 

FRANgoiSE. Then you're not going out to- 
day, are you? 

Marcel. Nor to-morrow; the whole day is 
yours. We'll close the door! 

FRANgoiSE. Aren't you happy ? 

Marcel [kissing her behind the ear]. Hurry 
up, you lazy child ! 

FRANgoiSE. I'm not pretty, but I have my 
good points. 

Marcel. Not pretty? 

Francoise. No, but I deserve to be. 

[Madeleine appears at the back,] 

Madeleine. I beg your pardon ! 

[Franqoise gives an exclamation of surprise 
and escapes through the door to the right 
without looking a second time at the visi- 
tor.] 

Marcel [^surprised]. Madeleine! 

\_A pause.] 

Madeleine [stylishly dressed. With an air 
of bravura]. So this is the way you deceive 
me! 

Marcel [gaily]. My dear, if you think that 
during these three years — 

Madeleine. I beg your pardon for interrupt- 
ing your little tete-a-tete, Marcel, but your door 
was open, and I found no servant to announce me. 

Marcel. You know you are always welcome 
here. 

Madeleine. Your wife is very attractive. 
159 



FOUR PLAYS 



Marcel. Isn't she? Shall I introduce you? 

Madeleine. Later — I've come to see you. 

Marcel. I must confess your visit is a little 
surprising. 

Madeleine. Especially after my sending 
that telegram this morning. I thought I should 
prefer not to trouble you. 

Marcel [uncertain]. Ah! 

Madeleine. Yes. 

Marcel. Well? 

Madeleine. Well, no! 

Marcel. I'm sorry. [Kissing her hand.] 
I'm glad to see you, at any rate. 

Madeleine. Same studio as always, eh? 

Marcel. You are still as charming as ever. 

Madeleine. You are as handsome as ever. 

Marcel. I can say no less for you. 

Madeleine. I'm only twenty-eight. 

Marcel. But your husband is fifty: that 
keeps you young. How long have you been back? 

Madeleine. A week. 

Marcel. And I haven't seen Guerin yet! 

Madeleine. There's no hurry. 

Marcel. What's the matter? 

Madeleine. He's a bit troubled: you know 
how jealous he is ! Well, yesterday, when I was 
out, he went through all my private papers — 

Marcel. Naturally he came across some let- 
ters. 

Madeleine. The letters, my dear! 

Marcel. Mine? 

Madeleine. Yes. — [Gesture from Marcel.] 
Old letters. 

Marcel. You kept them? 
1 60 



FRANCOISE' LUCK 



Madeleine. From a celebrity? Of course! 

Marcel. The devil! 

Madeleine. Ungrateful ! 

Marcel. I beg your pardon — 

Madeleine. You can imagine my explana- 
tion following the discovery. My dear Marcel, 
there's going to be a divorce. 

Marcel. A — ! A divorce? 

Madeleine. Don't pity me too much. After 
all, I shall be free — almost happy. 

Marcel. What resignation! 

Madeleine. Only — 

Marcel. Only what? 

Madeleine. He is going to send you his sec- 
onds. 

Marcel [^^i/>']. A duel? — To-day? You're 
not serious? 

Madeleine. I think he wants to kill you. 

Marcel. But that was an affair of three years 
ago ! Why, to begin with, he hasn't the right ! 

Madeleine. Because of the lapse of time? 

Marcel. Three years is three years. 

Madeleine. You're right: now you are not 
In love with his wife : you love your own. Time 
has changed everything. Now your own happi- 
ness is all-sufficient. I can easily understand your 
indignation against my husband. 

Marcel. Oh, I — 

Madeleine. My husband is slow but he's 
sure, isn't he? 

Marcel. You're cruel, Madeleine. 

Madeleine. If it's ancient history for you, 
It's only too recent for him ! 

Marcel. Let's not speak about him ! 
i6i 



FOUR PLAYS 



Madeleine. But he should be a very inter- 
esting topic of conversation just now ! 

Marcel. I hadn't foreseen his being so cut 
up. 

Madeleine. You must tell him how sorry 
you are when you see him. 

Marcel. At the duel? 

Madeleine. Elsewhere ! 

Marcel. Where? Here, in my house? 

Madeleine. My dear, he may want to tell 
you what he feels. 

[J paiise.^ 

Marcel [aside, troubled]. The devil! — 
And Francoise? [Another pause.] Oh, a duel! 
Well, I ought to risk my life for you; you have 
done the same thing for me many times. 

Madeleine. Oh, I was not so careful as you 
were then. 

Marcel. You are not telling me everything, 
Madeleine. What put it into your husband's 
head to look through your papers? 

Madeleine. Ah ! 

Marcel. Well, evidently / couldn't have ex- 
cited his jealousy. For a long time he has had 
no reason to suspect me ! Were they my letters 
he was looking for? 

Madeleine. That is my affair! 

Marcel. Then I am expiating for some one 
else? 

Madeleine. Fm afraid so. 

Marcel. Perfect ! 

Madeleine. Forgive me! 

Marcel [reproachfully]. So you are de- 
ceiving him ! ? 

162 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



Madeleine. You are a perfect friend to- 
day I 

Marcel. Then you really have a lover? 

Madeleine. A second lover! That would 
be disgraceful, wouldn't it? 

Marcel. The first step is the one with the 
worst consequences. 

Madeleine. What are you smihng at? 

Marcel. Oh, the happiness of others — ! 
Well, let's have no bitterness. 

Madeleine. No, you might feel remorse ! 

Marcel. Oh, Madeleine, why am I not the 
guilty one this time — you are always so beauti- 
ful! 

Madeleine. Your fault! You should have 
kept what you had! 

Marcel. I thought you were tired of me. 

Madeleine. You will never know what I 
suffered; I cried like an abandoned shopgirl! 

Marcel. Not for long, though? 

Madeleine. Three months. When I think 
I once loved you so much, and here I am before 
you so calm and indifferent! You look like any- 
body else now. How funny, how disgusting life 
is ! You meet some one, do no end of foolish 
and wicked and mean things in order to be- 
long to him, and the day comes when you don't 
know one another. Each takes his turn ! I 
think it would have been better — [Gesture from 
Marcel.'] Yes — I ought to try to forget every- 
thing. 

Marcel. That's all buried in the past! 
Wasn't it worth the trouble, the suffering that we 
have to undergo now? 

163 



FOUR PLAYS 



Madeleine. You too! You have to re- 
call—! 

Marcel. I'm sorry, but I didn't begin this 
conversation — 

Madeleine. Never mind ! It's all over, let's 
say nothing more about it ! 

Marcel. No, please! Let's — curse me, 
Madeleine, say anything you like about me — I 
deserve it all! 

Madeleine. Stop! Behave yourself, you 
married man! What if your wife heard you! 

Marcel. She? Dear child! She is much 
too afraid of what I might say to listen. 

Madeleine. Dear child! You cynic! I'll 
wager you have not been a model husband since 
your marriage ! 

Marcel. You are mistaken there, my dear. 

Madeleine. You are lying! 

Marcel. Seriously; and I'm more surprised 
than you at the fact — but it's true. 

Madeleine. Poor Marcel! 

Marcel. I do suffer! 

Madeleine. Then you are a faithful hus- 
band? 

Marcel. I am frivolous and — compromis- 
ing — that is all. 

Madeleine. It's rather funny: you seem 
somehow to be ready to belong to some one ! 

Marcel. Madeleine, you are the first who has 
come near tempting me. 

Madeleine. Is it possible? 

Marcel. I feel myself weakening. 

Madeleine. Thank you so much for think- 
164 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



ing of me, dear, — I appreciate it highly, but for 
the time being, I'll — consider. 

Marcel. Have you made up your mind? 

Madeleine. We shall see later; I'll think it 
over — perhaps! Yet, I rather doubt if — ! 
You haven't been nice to me to-day, your open 
honest face hasn't pleased me at all. Then you're 
so carelessly dressed ! I don't think you're at all 
interesting any more. No, I hardly think so ! 

Marcel. But, Madeleine — 

Madeleine. Don't call me Madeleine. 

Marcel. Madame Guerin! Madame Gue- 
rinl if I told you how much your telegram meant 
to me ! How excited I was ! I trembled when I 
read it! 

Madeleine. I'll warrant you read it before 
your wife? 

Marcel. It was so charming of you ! 

Madeleine. How depraved you are ! 

Marcel. How well you know me ! 

Madeleine. Fool ! 

Marcel. I adore you ! 

Madeleine. That's merely a notion of 
yours ! You imagine that since you haven't seen 
me for so long — I've just come back from a 
long trip ! 

Marcel. Don't shake my faith in you ! 

Madeleine. Think of your duties, my dear; 
don't forget — 

Marcel. Of my children? I have none. 

Madeleine. Of your wife. 

Marcel \_in desperation^. You always speak 
of her! 

165 



FOUR PLAYS 



Madeleine. Love her, my friend, and if 
my husband doesn't kill you to-morrow, continue 
to love her in peace and quiet. You are made 
for a virtuous life now — any one can see that. 
I'm flattering you when I consider you a libertine. 
You've been spoiled by too much happiness, that's 
the trouble with you ! 

Marcel [trying to kiss her]. Madeleine, if 
you only — ! 

Madeleine \_evading him']. Are you out of 
your wits? 

Marcel. Forgive me : I haven't quite for- 
gotten — ! Well, if I am killed it will be for a 
good reason. 

Madeleine. Poor dear! 

Marcel. It will ! This duel is going to com- 
promise you fearfully. Come now, every one will 
accuse you to-morrow; what difference does it 
make to you? 

Madeleine. I'm not in the mood! 

Marcel. Now you are lying! 

Madeleine. I don't love you. 

Marcel. Nonsense! You're sulking! 

Madeleine. How childish! Don't touch 
me ! ! You want me to be unfaithful to every- 
body! Never! [Changing.] Yet — ! No; it 
would be too fooHsh! Good-by! 

Marcel [kissing her as she tries to pass him]. 
Not before — 

Madeleine. Oh, you've mussed my hat; 
how awkward of you! [Trying to escape from 
Marcel's embrace.] Let me go! 

Marcel [jokingly]. Let you go? In a few 
days! 

i66 



FRANgoISE' LUCK 



Madeleine. Good-by! My husband may 
come any moment — 

Marcel. Are you afraid? 
^ Madeleine. Yes, I'm afraid he might for- 
give me ! 

Marcel. One minute more! 

Madeleine. No! I have just time — Fm 
going away this evening — 

Marcel. Going away? 

Madeleine. To London. 

Marcel. With — him, the other ? 

Madeleine. I hope so. 

Marcel. Who knows? He may be waiting 
this moment for you at Madame de Montglat's, 
your aunt's — 

Madeleine. They are playing cards to- 
gether — 

Marcel. The way we are! What a fam- 
ily! 

Madeleine. Impudent ! 

Marcel. That's why you came. 

Madeleine [about to leave']. Shall I go out 
through the models' door, as I used to ? 

Marcel. If I were still a bachelor you 
wouldn't leave me like this ! You would miss 
your train this evening — I'll tell you that ! 

Madeleine. You may very well look at that 
long sofa! No, no, my dear: not to-day, thanks! 

Marcel. In an hour, then, at Madame de 
Montglat's ! 

Madeleine. Take care, or I'll make you meet 
your successor! 

Marcel. Then I can see whether you are still 
a woman of taste I 

167 



FOUR PLAYS 



Madeleine. Ah, men are very — I'll say the 
word after I leave. {^She goes out through the 
little door.'] 

Marcel [alone], *' Men are very — !" If 
we were, the women would have a very stupid time 
of It! 

[He is about to follow Madeleine.] 

[Enter Francoise.] 

Francoise. Who was that stylish looking 
woman who just left, Marcel? 

Marcel [embarrassed], Madame Jackson, 
my American friend. 

Francoise. Well? 

Marcel. My picture? Sold! 

FRANgoiSE. Ten thousand? Splendid! 
Don't you think so? You don't seem very 
happy ! 

Marcel. The idea! 

[He picks up his hat.] 

Francoise [jealously]. Are you going to 
leave me? 

Marcel. I am just going to Goupil's and tell 
him. 

Francoise. Then I'll have to lunch all by my- 
self? [Marcel stops an instant before the mir- 
ror.] You look lovely. 

Marcel [turning round]. I — 

Francoise. Oh, you'll succeed — ! 

[A pause.] 

Marcel [enchanted, in spite of himself]. 
What can you be thinking of! [Aside.] What 
if she were after all my happiness?! [Reproach- 
fully.] Now Francoise — 

Francoise. I was only joking. 
i68 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



Marcel [ready to leave~\. No moping, re- 
member? I can't have that! 

Francoise. I know ! 

Marcel [tenderly. He stands at the thresh- 
old. Aside'\. Poor child! — Well! I may 
fail! 

He goes out, left.'] 

^RANgoiSE \_sadly~\. Where is he going? 
Probably to a rendezvous. Oh, if he is ! Will 
my luck fail me to-day? Soon he'll come back 
again, well satisfied with himself! I talk to him 
so much about my resignation, I wonder whether 
he believes in it? Why must I be tormented this 
way forever? 

[Enter Jean, with a visiting-card in his hand.] 

Jean. Is Monsieur not here? 

pRANgoiSE. Let me see ! 

[She takes the card.] 

Jean. The gentleman is waiting, Madame. 

Francoise. Ask him to come in. Quick, 
now! 

[Jean goes out.] 

[Enter Guerin, at the hack. As he sees Fran- 
coise he hesitates before coming to her.] 

Francoise [cordially]. Come in. Monsieur. 
I have never seen you, but I know you very well, 
already. 

Guerin [a large, strong man, with grayish 
hair]. Thank you, Madame. I thought I should 
find M. Desroches at home. If you will excuse 
me — 

Francoise. I beg you — ! 

Guerin. I fear I am intruding: it's so early. 

pRANgOlSE. You intruding in Marcel's home ? ! 
169 



FOUR PLAYS 



GuERiN. Madame — 

pRANgoiSE. My husband will return soon, 
Monsieur. 

GuERiN \hrightening~\. Ah, good! 

pRANgoiSE. Will you wait for him here in the 
studio ? 

GuERiN \^advancing']. Really, Madame, I 
should be very ungrateful were I to refuse your 
kindness. 

pRANgoiSE. Here are magazines and news- 
papers — I shall ask to be excused. \^As she is 
about to leave.^ It was rather difficult to make 
you stay ! 

GuERiN. Porgive me, Madame. [Aside 
ironically.] Too bad — ! She's decidedly 
charming! 

[Having gone upstage, Frangoise suddenly re- 
traces her steps.] 

pRANgoiSE. It seems a little strange to you. 
Monsieur — doesn't it? — to see a woman in this 
bachelor studio — quite at home? 

GuERiN. Why, Madame — 

pRANgoiSE. Before leaving you alone — 
which I shall do in a moment — you must know 
that there is one woman who is very glad to know 
you have returned to Paris ! 

GuERiN. We just arrived this week. 

pRANgoiSE. Good ! 

GuERiN [ironically]. It's so long since I've 
seen Marcel — 

pRANgoiSE. Three years. 

GuERlN. So many things have happened since ! 

pRANgoiSE. You find him a married man, for 
one thing — 

170 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



GuERiN. Happily married! 

pRANgoiSE. Yes, happily! 

GuERiN. Dear old Marcel ! I'll be so glad to 
see him ! 

pRANgoiSE. I see you haven't forgotten my 
husband, Monsieur. Thank you! 

GuERiN. How can I help admiring so stout 
and loyal a heart as his ! 

Francoise. You'll have to like me, too ! 

GuERiN. I already do. 

Francoise. Really? Then you believe every- 
thing you write? 

GuERiN. Yes, Madame. 

FRANgoiSE. Take care ! This morning I was 
re-reading one of your letters. In which you prom- 
ised me your heartiest support. [Holding out her 
hand to him.'] Then we're friends, are we not? 

GuERiN \_after hesitating a while, takes her 
hand in his]. Good friends, Madame! 

FRANgoiSE. Word of honor? 

GuERiN. Word of honor! 

FRANgoiSE [sitting]. Then I'll stay. Sit 
down, and let's talk! [Giierin is uncertain.] We 
have so much to say to each other! Let's talk 
about you first. 

GuERiN [forced to sit down]. About me? 
ButI — 

FRANgoiSE. Yes, about you ! 

GuERiN [quickly]. No, about >'o//r happiness, 
your welfare — ! 

FRANgoiSE. About my great happiness ! 

GuERiN [ironically]. Let us speak about your 
— existence — which you are so content with. I 
must know all the happiness of this house! 

171 



FOUR PLAYS 



Francoise. Happy people never have any- 
thing to say. 

GuERiN. You never have troubles, I presume ? 

FRANgoiSE. None, so far. 

GuERiN. What might happen? To-day you 
are living peacefully with Marcel, a man whose 
marriage with you was strongly opposed, it seems. 
Life owes you no more than it has already given 
you. 

Francoise. My happiness is complete. I 
had never imagined that the goodness of a man 
could make a woman so happy ! 

Guerin. The goodness — ? 

FRANgoiSE. Of course ! 

Guerin. The love, you mean, Madame ! 

Francoise. Oh, Marcel's love for me — ! 

Guerin. Something lacking? 

FRANgoiSE. Oh, no ! 

Guerin [interested]. Tell me. Am I not 
your friend? 

FRANgoiSE. Seriously, Monsieur, you know 
him very well, — how could he possibly be in love 
with me? Is it even possible? He lets me love 
him, and I ask nothing more. 

Guerin. Nothing? 

FRANgoiSE. Only to be allowed to continue to 
do so. [Gesture from Guerin.] I am not at all 
like other women. I don't ask for rights; but I 
do demand tenderness and consideration. He is 
free, I am not — I'll admit that. But I don't 
mind, I only hope that we may continue as we are ! 

Guerin. Have you some presentiment, Ma- 
dame? 

FRANgoiSE. I am afraid, Monsieur. My 
172 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



happiness is not of the proud, demonstrative va- 
riety, it is a kind of happiness that is continually 
trembling for its safety. If I told you — 

GuERiN. Do tell me ! 

pRANgoiSE. Later! How I pity one who 
loves and has to suffer for it! 

GuERiN [surprised]. You — ! 

pRANgoiSE. I am on the side of the jealous, 
of the betrayed — 

GuERiN [aside, and truly moved to sympathy]. 
Poor little woman! [With great sincerity.] 
Then you are not sure of him? 

Fran^OISE [growing more and more excite-d]. 
He is Marcel ! Admit for a moment that he loves 
me to-day — I want so to believe it ! — To-mor- 
row will he love me? Does he himself know 
whether he will love me then? Isn't he at the 
mercy of whims, a passing fantasy — of the 
weather, or the appearance of the first woman he 
happens to meet? I am only twenty, and I am 
not always as careful as I might be. Happiness 
is so difficult ! 

GuERiN. Yes, it is. [To himself.] It is! 
[To Francois e.] Perhaps you are conscientious, 
too sincere? 

pRANgoiSE. I feel that; yes, I think I am, but 
every time I try to hide my affection from him, 
he becomes indifferent, almost mean — as if he 
were glad to be rid of some duty — of being 
good! 

GuERiN. So it's come to that! 

Francoise. You see, Marcel can't get used to 
the idea that his other life is over, dead and 
buried, that he's married for good — that he must 

173 



FOUR PLAYS 



do as others do. I do my best and tell him, but 
my very presence only reminds him of his duties 
as a husband. For instance [interrupting her- 
self.^ Here I am telling you all this — - 

GuERiN. Oh ! — Please ! 

pRANgoiSE [^with bitternessi. He likes to go 
out alone at night, without me. He knows me 
well enough to understand that his being away 
makes me very unhappy, and as a matter of form, 
of common courtesy, he asks me whether I should 
like to go with him. I try to reason with myself, 
and convince myself that he doesn't mean what he 
says, but I can't help feeling sincerely happy when 
once in a while I do accept his invitation. But the 
moment we leave the house I see my mistake. 
Then he pretends to be in high spirits, but I know 
all the time he is merely acting a part; and when 
we come home again he lets drop without fail some 
hint about his having lost his liberty, that he took 
me out in a moment of weakness, that he really 
wanted to be alone. 

GuERiN [^interrupting.'] And when he does 
go out alone — ? 

Francoise. Then I am most unhappy; I'm 
in torment for hours and hours. I wonder where 
he can be, and then I fear he won't come back at 
all. When the door opens, when I hear him come 
in, Pm so happy that I pay no attention to what 
he tells me. But I made a solemn promise with 
myself never to give the slightest indication of 
jealousy. My face is always tranquil, and what I 
say to him never betrays what I feel. I never 
knowingly betray myself, but his taking way, his 
tenderness, soon make me confess every fear; then 

174 



FRANCOISE' LUCK 



he turns round and using my own confessions as 
weapons, shows me how wrong I am to be so 
afraid and suspicious. And when sometimes I 
say nothing to him, even when he tries to make me 
confess, he punishes me most severely by telling 
me stories of his affairs, narrow escapes, and all 
his temptations. He once told me about an old 
mistress of his, whom he had just seen, a very 
clever woman, who was never jealous ! Or else he 
comes in so late that I have to be glad, for if he 
came in later, it would have been all night! He 
tells me he had some splendid opportunity, and 
had to give it up ! A thousand things like that ! 
He seems to delight in making me suspect and 
doubt him ! 

GuERiN. Poor little woman ! 

pRANgoiSE. That's my life; as for my happi- 
ness, it exists from day to day. [With an air of 
revolt.^ If I only had the right to he unhappy! 
But I must always wear a smile, I must be happy, 
not only in his presence, officially, but to the very 
depths of my soul! So that he may deceive me 
without the slightest feeling of remorse! It is 
his pleasure ! 

[She bursts into tears.~\ 

GuERiN [rising^. The selfish brute! 

FRANgoiSE. Isn't my suffering a reproach to 
him ? 

GuERiN. I pity you, Madame, and I think I 
understand you better than any one else. I have 
trouble not unlike your own ; perhaps greater, in- 
consolable troubles. 

pRANgoiSE. If you understand me, Monsieur, 
advise me. I need you ! 

175 



FOUR PLAYS 



GUERIN [startled hack into reality^. Me, 
your aid? I? [Aside.] No! 

FRANgoiSE. You spoke of your friendship. 
The time has come, prove that it is real ! 

GuERiN. Madame, why did I ever see you? 
Why did I listen to you ? 

pRANgoiSE. What have you to regret? 

GuERiN. Nothing, Madame, nothing. 

pRANgoiSE. Explain yourself, Monsieur. 
You — you make me afraid! 

GuERiN [trying to calm her suspicions]. 
Don't cry like that ! There is nothing to behave 
that way about! Your husband doesn't love you 
as he ought, but he does love you. You are jeal- 
ous, that's what's troubling you. And for that 
matter, why should he deceive you? That would 
be too unjust — 

pRANgoiSE [excited]. Too unjust! You are 
right, Monsieur! No matter how cynical, how 
blase a man may be, isn't it his duty, his sacred 
duty to say to himself, " I have found a good and 
true woman in this world of deception; she is a 
woman who adores me, who is only too ready to 
invent any excuse for me ! She bears my name 
and honors it; no matter what I do, she is always 
true, of that I am positive. I am always fore- 
most in her thoughts, and I shall be her only love." 
When a man can say all that, Monsieur, isn't that 
real, true happiness? 

GuERiN [sohhing]. Yes — that Is happiness! 

pRANgoiSE. You are crying! [A pause.] 

GuERiN. My wife — deceived me ! 

pRANgoiSE. Oh! — [A pause.] Marcel — 

GuERlN. Your happiness is in no danger! 
176 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



Yesterday I found some old letters, in a desk — 
old letters — that was all ! You weren't his wife 
at the time. It's all ancient history. 

Fran goiSE [aside]. Who knows? 

GuERiN. Forgive me, Madame; your troubles 
make me think of my own. When you told of the 
happiness you can still give, I couldn't help think- 
ing of what I had lost ! 

Francoise. So you have come to get my hus- 
band to fight a duel with you ? 

GuERiN. Madame — 

Francoise. You are going to fight him ? An- 
swer me. 

GuERiN. My life is a wreck now — I must — 

FRANgoiSE. I don't ask you to forget; Mon- 
sieur — 

GuERiN. Don't you think I have a right — ? 

FRANgoiSE. Stop ! 

GuERlN. No, then; I shall not try to kill him. 
You love him too much ! I couldn't do it now ! 
In striking him I should be injuring you, and you 
don't deserve to suffer; you have betrayed no one ! 
The happiness you have just taught me to know 
is as sacred and inviolable as my honor, my un- 
happiness. I shall not seek revenge. 

Francoise [gratefully]. Oh, Monsieur. 

GuERiN. I am willing he should live, because 
he is so dear, so necessary to you. Keep him. If 
he wants to spoil your happiness, his be the blame ! 
I shall not do it ! It would be sacrilege ! Good- 
by, Madame, good-by. 

[Guerin goes out, back, Francoise falls into a 
chair, sobbing.] 

[Enter Marcel by the little door,] 
177 



FOUR PLAYS 



Marcel [aside, with a melancholy air~\. Re- 
fused to see me ! 

Francoise [distantly']. Oh, it's you! 

Marcel [good-humoredly']. Yes, it's I. [A 
pause. He goes toward her.] You have been 
crying! Have you seen Guerin? He's been 
here ! 

FRANgoiSE. Marcel — 

Marcel. Did he dare tell you — ! 

Francoise. You won't see any more of him. 

Marcel [astounded]. He's not going to 
fight? 

FRANgoiSE. He refuses. 

Marcel. Thank you ! 

FRANgoiSE. I took good care of your dignity, 
you may be sure of that. Here we were together; 
I told him the story of my life during the last year 
( — how I loved you — and then he broke down. — 
When I learned the truth, he said he would go 
away for the sake of my happiness. 

Marcel. I was a coward to deceive that 
man! — Is this a final sentence that you pass on 
me? 

FRANgoiSE. Marcel ! 

Marcel. Both of you are big ! You have big 
hearts ! I admire you both more than I can say. 

FRANgoiSE [incredulously]. Where are you 
going? To get him to fight with you ? 

Marcel [returning to her; angrily]. How 
can I, now? After what you have done, it would 
be absurd. Why the devil did you have to mix 
yourself up in something that didn't concern you? 
I was only looking for a chance to fight that duel ! 

178 



FRANgOISE' LUCK 



pRANgoiSE. Looking for a chance? 

Marcel. Oh, I — 

Francoise. Why? 

Marcel [between his teeth~\. That's my af- 
fair ! Everybody has his enemies — his insults 
to avenge. It was a very good thing that that 
gentleman didn't happen across my path ! 

Francoise. How can you dare to recall what 
he has been generous enough to forget? 

Marcel. How do you know that I haven't a 
special reason for fighting this duel? A legitimate 
reason, that must be concealed from you? 

Francoise. You are mistaken, dear : I guess 
that reason perfectly. 

Marcel. Really? 

FRANgoiSE. I know it. 

Marcel [bursting forth]. Oh! Good!! 
You haven't always been so frightfully profound ! 

Francoise. Yes, I have, and your irony only 
proves that I have not been so much mistaken in 
what I have felt by intuition. 

Marcel. Ah, marriage ! 

Francoise. Ah, duty ! 

Marcel. I love Madame Guerin, don't I? 

Francoise. I don't say that. 

Marcel. You think it. 

FRANgoiSE. And if I do? Would it be a 
crime to think it ? You once loved her — perhaps 
you have seen her again, not very long ago. Do I 
know where you go ? You never tell me. 

Marcel. I tell you too much ! 

FRANgoiSE. I think you do. 

Marcel. You're jealous! 
179 



FOUR PLAYS 



pRANgoiSE. Common, if you like. Come, you 
must admit, Marcel, Madame Guerin has some- 
thing to do with your excitement now ? 

Marcel. Very well then, I love her, I adore 
her ! Are you satisfied now ? 

Francoise. You should have told me that at 
first, my dear; I should never have tried to keep 
you away from her. 

[She breaks into tears.'] 

Marcel. She's crying! God, there's my lib- 
erty ! 

Francoise [bitterly]. Your liberty? I did 
not suffer when I promised you your liberty. 

Marcel. That was your " resignation " ! 

FRANgoiSE. You knew life, I did not. You 
ought never to have accepted it ! 

Marcel. You're hke all the rest ! 

Francoise [more excited]. Doesn't unhappi- 
ness level us all? 

Marcel. I see it does ! 

Francoise. What can you ask for them? 
So long as you have no great happiness like mine 
you are ready enough to make any sacrifice, but 
when once you have it, you never resign yourself 
to losing it. 

Marcel. That's just the difficulty. 

FRANgoiSE. Be a little patient, dear: I have 
not yet reached that state of cynicism and subtlety 
which you seem to want in your wife — I thought 
I came near to your ideal once ! Perhaps there's 
some hope for me yet: I have promised myself 
that I should do my best to satisfy your ideal. 

Marcel [moved]. I don't ask that. 

FRANgoiSE. You are right, I am very fool- 
i8o 



FRANCOISE' LUCK 



Ish to try to struggle. What will be the good? 
It will suffice when I have lost the dearest creature 
to me on earth — through my foolishness, my 
blunders ! 

Marcel. The dearest creature — ? 

pRANgoiSE. I can't help it If he seems so to 
me ! 

Marcel [disarmed]. You — you're trying 
to appeal to my vanity ! 

pRANgoiSE. I am hardly In the mood for jok- 
ing. 

Marcel [tenderly^ as he falls at her feet]. 
But you make me say things like that — I don't 
know what — ! I am not bad — really bad! 
No, I have not deceived you ! I love you, and 
only you ! You ! ! You know that, Frangolse ! 
Ask — ask any woman ! ! All women ! 

\_A pause.] 

JFran^oise [smiling through her tears]. Best 
of husbands ! You're not going out then ? You'll 
stay? 

Marcel [in Francoise's arms]. Can I go 
now, now that I'm here? You are so pretty that 
I — 

pRANgoiSE. Not when I'm in trouble. 

Marcel. Don't cry ! 

Francoise. I forgive you ! 

Marcel. Wait, I haven't confessed every- 
thing. 

Francoise. Not another word ! 

Marcel. I want to be sincere! 

Francoise. I prefer to have you lie to me! 

Marcel. First, read this telegram — the one 
I received this morning. 

i8i 



FOUR PLAYS 



pRANgoiSE [surprised]. From Madame 
Guerln? 

Marcel. You saw her not long ago. Yes, 
she calmly told me — 

FRANgoiSE. That her husband had found 
some letters! 

Marcel. And that she was about to leave for 
England with her lover. 

FRANgoiSE. Then she is quite consoled? 

Marcel. Perfectly. 

pRANgoiSE. Poor Marcel ! And you went to 
see her and try to prevent her going away with 
him? 

Marcel. My foolishness was well punished. 
She wouldn't receive me. 

FRANgoiSE. Then I am the only one left who 
loves you? How happy I am! 

Marcel. I'll kill that love some day with my 
ridiculous affairs ! 

FRANgoiSE [^ravelyl, I defy you! 

Marcel [playfully']. Then I no longer have 
the right to provoke Monsieur Guerin? Now? 

FRANgoiSE [gaily]. You are growing old, 
Lovelace, his wife has deceived you ! 

Marcel [lovingly]. Francoise' luck! 
[Sadly.] Married! 



[Curtain.] 



182 



The Dupe 

(.La Dupe) 
A Comedy in Five Acts 

By 

GEORGES ANCEY 

TRANSLATED BY 

BARRETT H. CLARK 



Produced for the first time, at the Theatre Libre, 
21 December, 1891. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED: 

ORIGINAL CAST 

Albert M. Antoine 

Madame Viot Miles. Barny 

Adele Henriot 

Marie Dulac 

The scene Is the drawing-room in an apartment 
at Paris. The time is the present. 



THE DUPE 

ACT I 

[Mme. Viot and Marie are on the stage as 
the curtain rises. ^ 

Mme. Viot. And what if she is unwiUing? 
You know she is hard to handle. 

Marie. If she is unwiUing, then she must be 
severely talked to. She's refused five or six very 
favorable chances! And now here is this nice- 
looking, wealthy young man of good family — it 
would be very, very foolish to let him escape — 
perhaps very imprudent. Adele has 300,000 
francs' dowry, I know, but she's twenty-three al- 
ready; it's time she was married! 

Mme. Viot. My dear child, you are abso- 
lutely right. 

Marie. You must admit that when it was a 
question oi finding me a husband I didn't give you 
so much trouble. 

Mme. Viot. You certainly didn't. You be- 
haved beautifully ! 

Marie. And yet, it isn't very hard to see that 
you prefer my sister to me. You don't dare scold 
her. 

Mme. Viot. I? Oh, Marie, I do everything 
for you ! Your father always used to say to me : 
" Madame Viot," he said, " you love Marie bet- 

187 



FOUR PLAYS 



ter than Adele." Only the other day, in that busi- 
ness about the will — 

Marie. You're not going to blame me — ? 

Mme. Viot. No, you dear child, and I'm only 
too happy when I can do something for you. I do 
everything in my power, and sometimes I'm even 
unjust to Adele. I know she wouldn't like the 
way I favored you, and if she knew that the day I 
die — 

Marie. Don't talk about it! But then, you 
see, Adele doesn't care about those things : money 
is nothing to her. You have no reason to feel 
sorry for her. 

Mme. Viot. I don't. Now what shall I say 
to Adele ? 

Marie. / don't know, you can think of some- 
thing. Tell her, for instance, that M. Bonnet is 
really a wonderful match. Then add that you de- 
sire nothing better than her happiness, that that 
Is your sole reason for existence — tell her your 
love for her! We always say that to children 
when we want them to do something. 

Mme. Viot. Good. I'll follow your advice, 
as I always do. You have so much common sense 
— you see things so clearly! 

Marie. Only remember not to drag me in; I 
love Adele immensely. I don't want any of the 
responsibility in this affair. 

Mme. Viot. Well, you were the first, after 
all, to mention this possible marriage, and per- 
suaded me to do what I've done. It must suc- 
ceed ! But not long ago — 

Marie. Oh, Mama, you're quite mistaken. 
I simply advised you to consider M. Bonnet. You 

i88 



THE DUPE 



know, he's acquainted with my husband; his fam- 
ily may be able to help Gustave a little in a busi- 
ness way. I said this marriage would be a good 
stroke for us all. I said that it had to be. Out- 
side that, I had nothing to do with the case. I al- 
ways wanted to remain neutral, and neutral shall 
I remain. I know nothing, and I don't want to 
know anything. And to prove it, I again advise 
you to act according to your own ideas. Above 
all, don't imagine that I waited until you had al- 
ready decided! — For you have decided, haven't 
you ? — 

Mme. Viot. Yes — 

Marie. No, I don't want to know! Now, 
think well; it will be a big responsibility on your 
part — giving Adele a husband she doesn't care 
for. Look well into it all, and forget me: I 
don't count. Adele is the only one who really 
counts. Dear Adele! If I were you, I'd hesi- 
tate a long time. — M. Bonnet — ! M. Bon- 
net — ! 

Mme. Viot. Of course, you're not forcing me 
to decide ! But really I want it. It is a necessity. 
I want it in spite of you. 

Marie. Mama, there is only one thing I 
really care about on earth : that you should love us 
both. I believe that my sole reason for existing 
is for your sake. 

Mme. Viot. Dear child ! 

Marie. Come now. Tell Adele to come 
here. Tell her, too, all I told you to tell 
her. 

Mme. Viot [calling] — Adele — ! 

[Enter Adele,} 

189 



FOUR PLAYS 



[ To A dele. ^ Look at me — your face — Yes, 
you look nice. Fix your curls, there! Turn 
round. Good. 

Marie. Charming. 

Adele. What's this, Mama? 

Mme. Viot. You ought to know. M. Bon- 
net, whom you've seen once or twice, has asked for 
your hand in marriage. He's coming, and you're 
to give us all your answer. 

Adele. Who is this M. Bonnet? 

Mme. Viot. You know very well : that young 
man who danced with you at the Marcellins'. 

Adele. I don't remember him. 

Mme. Viot. No matter. Only keep this one 
thing well in mind : my heart is set on this mar- 
riage, which will be of great advantage to us all. 
Just remember that, and be as nice as you can to 
him. He's coming to make us a visit, just as if it 
were an ordinary call. Talk with him, and be- 
have sensibly. 

Adele. Very well. Mama. 

Marie. Dear sister ! 

Mme. Viot. There's the bell ! It's he ! Oh, 
his name is Albert. 

\^Enter Albert Bonnet.^ 

Ah, M. Bonnet! Adele, bring a chair — I 
hope you are well, Monsieur? 

Albert. Very well, Madame, and you? — 
[To Marie.'] How are you, Madame? Is M. 
Chesneau well? 

Marie. Perfectly, thank you. 

Albert. Mademoiselle ! 

Adele. Monsieur! 

Albert. I beg your pardon, Madame, for 
190 



THE DUPE 



coming so early, but I'm so busy now; I have a 
great many important and pressing matters on 
hand — I can scarcely find an hour to myself all 
day long. But I so wanted to thank you for the 
invitation you sent me not long ago for that dance 
at the Marcellins', and I thought I should take ad- 
vantage of a leisure moment — and perform a — 
duty — w^hich is at the same time — a — pleasure 
— yes, indeed — a — pleasure. I have no hesi- 
tation in employing that expression; it is even a 
trifle feeble to express what I feel. It falls far 
short of the truth — I assure you. For — with 
the exception of M. Chesneau, I have the good 
fortune of finding all the family together. 

Mme. Viot. Too good of you ! We are 
really delighted to see you ! 

Marie. Certainly! [To J dele.] Say some- 
thing ! 

Adele [to Marie]. What? [A pause.] 

Mme. Viot. And — Your father is quite 
well? 

Albert. Yes, Madame, fortunately — in 
spite of this extraordinary cold weather. I won- 
der if it will continue? 

Mme. Viot. Oh, we certainly hope not. 

Marie. A little rain will doubtless bring 
milder weather. 

Albert. But it's very disagreeable now; 
streets dirty, sidewalks all slushy — are they not, 
Mademoiselle? 

Adele. Oh, of course. Monsieur! [They 
laugh, A pause.] 

Mme. Viot. And — your mother is in good 
health? 

191 



FOUR PLAYS 



Albert. Oh, always about the same. We 
don't dare hope to have her with us much 
longer. 

Marie. Really? [J pause.] 

Mme. Viot. And your uncle is not too 
troubled with his gout ? 

Albert. I'm afraid he is. This weather, you 
know — ! 

Mme. Viot. Fortunately, your aunt is able to 
take good care of him. What a splendid woman 
your aunt is ! 

Albert. Oh, yes. [J pause.] 

Marie. Our family is very lucky. Not one 
of us troubled with gout. We all have fine consti- 
tutions : my mother, myself, my sister — haven't 
you, Adele? 

Adele. Oh, yes, I'm always well. [They 
laugh agam.] 

Albert. I see, Mademoiselle has delicious 
coloring — usually the sign of a robust constitu- 
tion. 

Mme. Viot. She is a great favorite with us, as 
well she might be. I can truly say that she has 
been well brought up according to all the good 
principles of the family. You know, she speaks 
three languages, almost as well as her mother- 
tongue : English, Italian, and — and — Ger- 
man. German is so difficult, you know — ! 

Marie. I never could learn it! 

Albert. A splendid thing, if Mademoiselle 
ever marries a business man. We find very few 
people in our employ who know that lan- 
guage. 

Mme. Viot. Indeed! And then, she plays 
192 



THE DUPE 



the piano very nicely. Won't you play us a little 
something, and show M. Albert — ? 

Albert. Ah, Mademoiselle, if you would be 
so good ! I hardly dared ask — 

Adele. You are too good, Monsieur, but I 
really don't know anything to play. [She gig- 
gles.^ 

Mme. Viot. We mustn't torment her. But 
her favorite art, the one in which she shows most 
talent, is painting — 

Marie. My sister does some very good porce- 
lain v/ork. 

Albert. Really? Might I see some- 
thing — ? 

Mme. Viot. Dearie, show Monsieur that 
plate you are just finishing. 

Albert. I beg you ! 

Adele [who has gone to get the plate~\ . Here ! 

Albert. How pretty, how pretty 1 

Mme. Viot. Not half bad ! 

Albert. That little Cupid, up there — ! 

Mme. Viot. You might almost think it was 
going to fly away ! 

Albert. And he does, Madame — he does, 
— very ingenious ! — He's flying to pluck a rose ! 
So poetic! So graceful! 

Mme. Viot. Yes, she's a very fair amateur. 

Albert. Amateur? This Is not the work of 
an amateur, Madame. This is the work of an 
artist ! 

Marie. Isn't sister going to exhibit It at the 
Salon? 

Albert. I was just going to suggest that! 

Mme. Viot. You are too good! 
193 



FOUR PLAYS 



Albert. I say merely what I think. You 
know, I felt all along, before I came here, that 
Mademoiselle was different from other young 
ladies — the kind you meet at social gatherings. 
We danced together at the Marcellins' — only too 
little, for Mademoiselle Adele dances perfectly. 
We spoke about travel, did we not? 

Adele. Yes, I remember. [She laughs 
again.~\ 

Albert. That affair was very delightful. 
And I can say, without appearing to exaggerate, 
that your presence there went far to make it so. 
Mademoiselle Adele is so charming, so amiable, 
so refined, so — let us be frank — so pretty, that 
to her alone was due the pleasure of that soiree. 
What cleverness, and good sense ! And her 
power of expressing things, her manner of speech 
and carriage ! And that air of distinction — gets 
it from her family — Mademoiselle comes of good 
stock, assuredly! Distinction is a rara avis in 
these days, too. It is all the more charming in 
Mademoiselle, as it is allied with a wonderfully 
equal temper and good humor — 

Mme. Viot. Monsieur — ! 

Albert. Of course! I repeat: distinction of 
bearing, in her manner of dressing. Mile. Adele 
is perfection in everything! As for myself, Ma- 
dame, I have occasion to meet many people in so- 
ciety, and for as long as I can remember, I have 
never met, among all the young ladies with whom 
I have danced, a single one with the charming sim- 
plicity of Mademoiselle. — But, I beg you, stop 
me — I shall never end this talk. And yet: one 

194 



THE DUPE 



word more. It's about that pretty dress she wore 
that evening at the Marcellins'. 

Mme. Viot. Do you notice such things, then? 

Albert. I should think so ! And how well 
she wore It! There are so many people who 
haven't the slightest Idea how to wear clothes. 
The same criticism certainly cannot be made In 
her case ; I shall never forget that pink dress — 

Mme. Viot. It wasn't pink ! 

Albert. Of course ! I was confusing it with 
that of the lady next to her. It was blue ! 

MiME. Viot. No — gray ! 

Albert. Yes, gray! In the artificial light, 
you know — ! 

[z/ pause of embarrassment.^ 

Marie. It's only natural, you know, that we 
should be well dressed: we have a first-rate mo- 
diste. 

Albert. Oh, the modiste Isn't everything. 
]^They laugh.'] Well, now, I must be going, Ma- 
dame. I am very sorry to have to leave you so 
abruptly, but business Is business! I have an im- 
portant engagement. Madame! Madame! 
Mademoiselle! [Albert goes out.~\ 

Mme. Viot [to Marie]. Charming, isn't he? 

Marie. Not half bad. 

Mme. Viot [to /I dele]. What do you think? 

Adele. Well, Mama, M. Bonnet — 

Mme. Viot. Well, what? M. Bonnet — ? 
Can't you say something else? 

Adele [bursting into tears]. I — I don't like 
him. 

Mme. Viot. There you are crying! 

195 



FOUR PLAYS 



Adele. Please, please, Mama, not that man! 
I haven't even talked with him, I have hardly seen 
him — 

Mme. Viot. It is not necessary to talk with 
a young man before you're engaged to him. 

Adele. That may be, but I don't love him. 
There's something about him that revolts me. 
He's not at all good-looking, and he's nearly 
bald — 

Mme. Viot. Well, if you're so particular 
about those things — ! 

Adele. Remember what you used to say to 
me : to be happy in marriage you must have a hus- 
band you love and who loves you. 

Mme. Viot. Who says M. Bonnet doesn't love 
you? If he wants to marry you, you must be at- 
tractive to him! 

Adele. Or else I must be a good business 
proposition ! 

Mme. Viot. Who taught you to reason like 
that ? You're talking nonsense. At your age — ! 

Marie. Mama, Mama, the poor dear child! 

Adele. You needn't think I've arrived at the 
age of twenty-three without doing some thinking. 
I have noticed so many of my girl friends and their 
marriages — 

Marie [to Mme. Fiot]. Insist! 

Mme. Viot. You've been very badly brought 
up, that's all. Now, about M. Bonnet: you know 
your confessor recommended him strongly. And 
when the Abbe Porel says something, you can take 
his word for it. 

Marie [to Adele']. Do you mean to say he 
doesn't know what he's talking about? 

196 



THE DUPE 



Mme. Viot. And think how well he knows 
you ! He baptized you, was with you when you 
went to First Communion, and helped you with 
your Catechism. It would be very strange if he 
didn't know you through and through. He told 
me that you and M. Bonnet were made for one an- 
other, and after making inquiries about him, I 
agree with the Abbe. M. Bonnet is thirty, he is 
very charming, a good business man. Intelligent, 
and religious. He is the director of a fire Insur- 
ance company. The Central, I believe. He Is very 
easy to get along with. If you go about It care- 
fully, you can lead him by the nose. He brings 
a very neat little dowry, and has great promise for 
the future. You might look a long time to find a 
better family than his : his father was a judge, and 
his mother has a brother whose wife Is the daugh- 
ter of a judge of the Commercial Tribunal; the 
maternal grandfather of M. Bonnet's father was 
the second husband of the daughter by his second 
marriage of the celebrated lawyer, Rlgault. They 
are a splendid family: amiable, gracious, and well 
educated. The other day I was talking with M. 
Bonnet, your future great-uncle. I never saw so 
delightful a man. He talked for a whole hour — 
I couldn't get a word In edgewise. — Well, I have 
set my heart on this marriage, because It Is certain 
to make a number of very pleasant connections 
for every one of us. So, we are agreed, aren't 
we? 

Marie \_to her mother']. Good! 

Adele. But I don't love M. Bonnet! 

Marie. Poor child ! 

Mme. Viot. A nice answer! When you get 
197 



FOUR PLAYS 



a good chance you must take it. Love comes aft- 
erward. 

Adele. But I have everything I need right 
here, Mama. I am perfectly happy as I am. I'd 
be wilHng never to marry, if I could always be with 
you! 

Mme. Viot. And never marry ? ! 

Adele. I'm happy. I do as I like. Why not 
wait, then? I can't bear the thought of leaving 
my home, and you — all that I've loved. To 
think of leaving — my own room, that I've fixed 
up so prettily ! That may all seem foolish to you, 
but I'm — sentimental — you yourself say I am ! 
When you live a long while in one place, you get 
to love it, and when the time comes to leave, you 
feel that you're leaving part of yourself there! 
I'd regret even our little walks together, and our 
visits. I didn't mind if they were a little tiresome. 
I'd feel very, very sorry not to hear old Rosalie 
scold me in the morning, telling me it was time to 
get up. 

Mme. Viot. But you see, as soon as you 
marry, I've decided to move. I'm going to let 
you have this apartment and all the furniture. 
I'm going to live opposite here, just above your 
sister. 

Adele. That isn't the same thing at all ! 

Marie. How affectionate of her ! 

Mme. Viot. Now stop this childishness ! I'm 
getting old, my dear. You can never tell who's 
going to die and who's going to live on. I don't 
want to risk not doing all my duty before I go — 
my whole duty. To look after a little girl of your 
age is a great responsibility, and I want to get rid 

198 




THE DUPE 



of it. You may think it's easy watching you from 
day to day! I'm losing what little leisure time I 
have to myself before I die. We have to see you 
around in society, inquire about all the young men 
you dance with! I'm thoroughly tired of the 
whole business ! Always on the lookout for a hus- 
band for you. Advice, gossip, everywhere — all 
your friends want you to marry ! I'm tired too of 
getting all dressed up two and three times a week, 
climbing into a carriage late at night, and sitting 
out long dances, and coming home, sick and tired, 
at six In the morning ! 

Adele. Oh, Mama, we're never later than 
one! 

Mme. Viot. What? 

Adele. Never. 

Mme. Viot. At any rate, I'm ready to move 
now. The landlord is increasing the rent; our 
lease expires in April. In our new apartment 
there'll be no room for you. If you aren't mar- 
ried by the last of March — at the latest — here 
I'll be with an apartment beyond my means on my 
hands. And it'll be your fault if I have to pay a 
hundred francs a term extra ! 

Adele. You can afford It ten times over. 

Mme. Viot. No, I can't afford it. And I 
don't want you to say I can. I'd arranged to fix 
up the new place and at last begin to economize. 
Not long ago I saw a nice parlor set of furniture 
that would fit in beautifully — red plush — 

Adele. How ugly I 

Mme. Viot. Perhaps it is, but it's cheap. 
Now run along. Here's another bargain I'm go- 
ing to lose, and it's your fault. Funny — you 

199 



FOUR PLAYS 



really are a bother ! After all I've done for you, 
I expected you would be a little nice to me, more 
devoted — ! 

Adele. But, I — 

Marie [to her motherl. Come to the point. 

Mme. Viot [violently^. I'm done with you! 
I shan't argue another minute. You are going to 
marry — 

Adele. Mama ! 

Mme. Viot. You are going to marry him! 
You'll thank me afterward. Don't say another 
word, now — if you're going to cry, go and cry 
in your own room. We know better than you 
what sort of husband you need. — The idea ! 

Marie. Poor dear! 

Adele [aside to Marie']. Thank you for de- 
fending me ! 

Marie. I understand how you feel! [Adele 
goes out.] 

Mme. Viot. Thank you for helping me ! 

Marie. You were perfectly right. 

Mme. Viot. Well, that's over. What a stub- 
born child she is! How different you girls are! 
You're so good ! 

Marie. Remember whom I'm named after: 
the Virgin Mary! 

Mme. Viot. You're worthy the name. 

Marie. Let's hope the marriage will be a 
happy one ! 

Mme. Viot. No matter what happens, I know 
I have done my duty ! 



[Curtain.] 
200 



ACT II 

[The scene is the same. A dele and Albert 
are on the stage as the curtain rises.'\ 

Adele. Then you're going out? 

Albert. Yes, sweetheart, I must go to the of- 
fice. 

Adele. Just five minutes more ! That's a nice 
sort of office to have, where you must go at night! 
Just five minutes, dear. 

Albert. Well, five minutes — no longer. 

Adele. You good boy ! Sit down there now, 
and don't move, while I have a good long look at 
you. 

Albert. Child! You might think we were 
married only yesterday ! 

Adele. Dearest, we haven't been for so long, 
you know — ! Hardly a year. We can still love 
each other and not seem foolish, can't we? 

Albert. Certainly, certainly. 

Adele. And I do love you — how I love you ! 
— funny. Isn't it ? 

Albert. Funny? That you love me? 

Adele. Yes. 

Albert. I think you are a little — off? 

Adele. That's what you can't understand — 
you don't know — \She laughs. A^ 

Albert. Why — I 

201 



FOUR PLAYS 



Adele. You're so ridiculous when you're sur- 
prised. Look that way again — once more, 
please ! Now I'll tell you everything. 

Albert. Tell me — 

Adele. It's funny that I love you now, because 
I didn't use to — 

Albert. When? 

Adele. Before we were married — I couldn't 
see anything in you. 

Albert. Indeed? 

Adele. Are you angry? 

Albert. Of course not ! 

Adele. I'll never forget the day you came to 
pay a visit to Mama, and meet me. How I nearly 
died laughing to myself — and crying, too, because 
I knew well enough that I had to marry you. — 
You don't hold that against me, do you ? 

Albert. Not in the least — I think it's very 
amusing. 

Adele. You made an awful impression on me, 
with your bald head — oh, awful ! Then you 
seemed so embarrassed with that gold-headed cane 
of yours ! And what a time you had making com- 
pHments to me ! And what compliments they 
were ! " Mademoiselle, you paint superbly ! — 
Mademoiselle, you dance beautifully ! " And my 
dress, the one I wore to the Marcellins', the one 
you perfectly remembered! And Mama asked 
you what color it was, and then you forgot! 
What a slip ! How you amused me, and how I 
laughed! Your answering that it was pink, and 
then blue ! Right now, I'll wager you don't know 
what color it was ! Just tell me, and let's see ! 

Albert. Well, it was blue ! 
202 



THE DUPE 



Adele [laughing loudly']. No! Gray! 
Maker of compliments whether they're true or 
not! 

Albert. Of course, It was gray. 

Adele. Now you remember. Gray, gray, 
gray! 

Albert. Of course. 

Adele. Then after that great success of yours, 
you thought it was time you put an end to your 
visit, you imagined I had had sufficient oppor- 
tunity to observe your charms, your conversational 
qualities. Then you got up, looking as though 
you were afraid that perhaps you hadn't been quite 
as brilliant as you had hoped to be. And then you 
left, very ceremoniously. My dear, if you thought 
for one instant that that day, when you put your 
gold-headed cane in the umbrella-rack, you had 
made the conquest of my affections, you were mis- 
taken. Just after you went. Mama told me I was 
to marry you, so that she could move at once. 
Here she had to pay too much rent ! What a rea- 
son! 

Albert. Your mother is a funny one! 

Adele. Then I cried — cried like a Mag- 
dalen! I even kept It up till the day of my mar- 
riage; even after, I had to have a little time to 
become accustomed, to console myself. 

Albert. But now you love me? 

Adele. Do I?! 

Albert. And how did it happen? 

Adele. One evening, last summer, at 
Mama's, in the country. It was four months 
after our marriage. Up to that time, I was in a 
whirlpool of thoughts and sensations — I couldn't 

203 



FOUR PLAYS 



really collect myself. The first days, I didn't 
know where I was : I was angry, all cut up — I 
must have seemed queer to you? But I couldn't 
help It. Everything seemed so new and so dis- 
gusting. Yet one evening, you said something to 
me, and it kept ringing in my ears. It seems per- 
haps very commonplace, but you called me " Dear- 
est," — so nicely, so sweetly, that — well — -I 
can't explain! Then Mama and I left for the 
country, where you came nearly every night, from 
Paris. Then I felt so queer : when you were there 
I wished you were a long way off ; when you were 
away, I wanted you near me. — Ask Mama, her 
room was next to mine there. \^Laughtng.~\ 
She'll tell you that I called for you in the night! 
When we talked together, your voice sounded 
strange. There were moments when your voice 
breaking the silence, made me feel faint. And 
always the thought of your " Dearest " ! It was 
like a caress! At last, one June night, we took 
a long walk in the park. The window of our 
room had been open all day, it was filled with the 
sweet perfume of the fields. How sweet it was ! 
I was quite intoxicated! And I kept talking and 
talking, and you kissed me to make me stop ! 
You took me In your arms, rudely, like my mas- 
ter. Then I was afraid of nothing. From then 
on, I had no more fear, no more misgivings. I 
was your slave. I love you, I adore you ! Kiss 
me, Albert ! And — don't go to the office to- 
night ! 

Albert. The little child! Come now, no 
foolishness ! I must go — 

Adele. Is It so important — ? 
204 



THE DUPE 



Albert. A very pressing business matter. A 
great deal depends on the result. 

Adele. Go then, and come back quickly. 

Albert. I'll go and come back immediately 
> — in fifteen minutes. 

Adele. You are going to your office, aren't 
you? 

Albert. Where else should I go? Are you 
jealous? 

Adele {^laughing^. I was only fooling. 
Good-by ! 

Albert. I'll come back soon. Good-by. 
\^He goes out.'] 

Adele. I love him! [After a pause.] I 
wonder if It's true what he said the other day, 
that a woman should not love her husband too 
blindly, that if she is really sensible and consider- 
ate, she should be reserved, so that she can keep 
him well in hand? To be a superior and intelli- 
gent wife? Do like my sister? Every moment 
be on the alert to look after your husband's wel- 
fare, and in that way, get "around" him? If 
you don't do that, he will get the better of you — 
Then marriage is a struggle, where either the 
husband or the wife must be the victor. The 
people who say that have never loved ! No, I 
won't follow their advice! I can't do it! It's 
too sweet to let yourself be domineered over. I 
know I'm only a little foolish wife. — Oh, here 
comes Marie! 

[Enter Marie.] 

Marie. How nice it is to live so near! My 
husband has gone to bed, and I thought I'd run 
over to see you a moment. 

205 



FOUR PLAYS 



Adele. Your husband in bed so soon? At 
this hour? Is he sick? 

Marie. No, it's only a habit of his. 

Adele \_smiUng']. That you persuade him to 
keep up ! 

Marie. What? 

Adele. Nothing. You must forgive me if I 
sound foolish: I'm so happy! I think parents 
are quite right in forcing their daughters to 
marry. When girls are young, they have no 
sense. Dear Albert ! 

Marie. Is dear Albert here? 

Adele. No, he's just gone to the office. 
He'll be back at ten. 

Marie. Oh, he goes out evenings, now? 

Adele. Just to the office ! 

Marie. It's dangerous; even to the office! 

Adele. You are too suspicious : I'm perfectly 
sure of him. Of course, it's natural, you know: 
some people are confiding, and others not. A 
man must have some freedom. I should never 
love a man who would do everything I liked. It's 
nice once in a while to be refused. 

Marie. Think so ? 

Adele. Yes — rather — or — well, I hardly 
know. Just now I'm a little mad, I'm so happy! 

Marie. Yet I advise you to refuse to let him 
go out at night, no matter how good his excuse is. 
This going to theaters, and cafes and clubs — clubs 
above all — ! 

Adele. But we love each other ! \_A pause.'] 

Marie. I was at Mme. Rousseau's to-day. 

Adele. Indeed? 

Marie. Yes. 

206 



THE DUPE 



Adele. What did the good Mme. Rousseau 
tell you? 

Marie. A thousand things. 

Adele. Secrets? 

Marie. Oh, not at all! She asked about 
you, and then talked about your husband. 

Adele. Did she? 

Marie. What a singular woman she is. It 
seems that she Is always meddling with something 
that doesn't concern her. 

Adele. She certainly is! 

Marie. Of course, she seems to be very well 
informed. She says some things that are not In 
the least pleasant to hear. 

Adele. Did she tell you anything like that 
about Albert? 

Marie. No, no, not about your husband — 

Adele. Really? You look rather queer — 

Marie. Of course not — 

Adele [leaving her work~\. I love Albert so 
deeply that the slightest suspicion upsets me ter- 
ribly. 

Marie. Poor little dear! You're a perfect 
darling! If he ever thought of being unfaithful 
to you, he'd be the lowest of blackguards! But 
you have no cause for worry — 

Adele. I'm not anxious. 

Marie. And you're right. — [A pause.] 
Proofs, real proofs are what are always needed 
in time of danger. 

Adele. I know that Mme. Rousseau said 
something about my husband. 

Marie. But it was all so foolish ! 

Adele. Well, what did she say? 
207 



FOUR PLAYS 



Marie. Lies, of course. I ask you, how could 
Albert, who loves you, have married you to pay 
off his debts, and now keep his former mistress, 
a woman of forty? 

Adele. Did she say that? 

Marie. Yes. 

Adele. Let her then, I don't care ! It's just 
funny, that's all. 

Marie. But that isn't all. Just imagine, she 
says your husband was surprised with this woman 
in his arms — 

Adele. By whom ? 

Marie. By M. and Mme. Rousseau. 

Adele. And what did M. Rousseau say? As 
a rule, he is not inclined to treat things lightly. 

Marie. He corroborates his wife, and adds 
something. 

Adele. What? 

Marie. He declares that Albert has rented an 
apartment for this woman not far from here, in 
order to be near her. He even knows the lady's 
name : Caroline — yes, I think that's it ! What 
gossiping scandal-mongers there are in this world ! 

Adele. Caroline? Caroline? 

Marie. What's the matter with you? 

Adele. I seem to remember something, my- 
self. Something seemed peculiar, but I believed 
Albert's explanations. Could it be true, then? 
Are the Rousseaus right? One day, Albert was 
at the office, I saw a letter that had come for 
him — it was in his desk — it was from a woman 
— signed " Caroline." I showed it to him, but 
he swore that was ancient history. He seemed 
very much surprised to see it; " That should have 

208 



THE DUPE 



been burned long ago," he said. He then told 
me that he had never had anything to do with 
her. He even laughed at what had happened, 
and I remember that I laughed with him. Yet I 
remember that the letter must have been written 
quite recently: the ink seemed fresh. Where is 
that letter? I'll show it to you. We must get 
to the bottom of this now. — Where did I put it? 
It began with "My Dear Albert" — Now I 
can't find it! — And to think that another woman 
has called him " My Dear Albert " I Where 
is it? 

Marie. Don't bother so much about a little 
gossip. There's really nothing the matter ! 
Don't cry about It — I can't bear to see you cry! 

Adele. You're right: it's nothing at all. I 
know Albert would not deceive me. The whole 
thing's only a story made up by disagreeable peo- 
ple. If you only knew how nice Albert is! Just 
now, when we were talking together, he was so 
open and frank! Could he have been thinking 
of some one else at such a time? Could he de- 
ceive me? Nonsense ! [Suddenly taking /n^^^^«] 
And yet — 

Marie. Yet? 

Adele. It's rather strange how certain things 
come to mind at times ! — Only the other day — 
I never thought of it before, yet It's clear now! — 
Shall I always be thinking of something evil? 
No, no, no — and yet — ? It's this: the other 
day, I walked half-way to his office with him. 
We got to the end of the Palais Royal garden — 
under the little archway where there aren't any 
shops, at the foot of the little stairway leading to 

209 



FOUR PLAYS 



the Rue Vivienne, we passed a light-complexioned 
woman, rather tall — she was smiling — as if 
she were meeting a friend. I looked at my hus- 
band. Funny, he was smiling, too. I remember 
perfectly: then he kept on smiling at her. How 
foolish I am ! It's only my imagination, I know ! 
What if he did smile at her? Perhaps — well 

— and if he did? Perhaps he didn't know her? 
As any one might. But then people don't do it 

— that way ! Then something else ! As soon as 
we'd go up the stairs, I left him. I had an er- 
rand to do. As I was leaving, I saw him go back; 
instead of going to the Bourse, he went the other 
way! To join that woman we passed! 

Marie. He may have gone to see his friend 
Berard, who lives in the Rue Montpensier? 

Adele. An old friend — yes, possibly — 
probably — But no ! Then he would have gone 
to the left. He didn't, he went after that woman 
who had come down the stairs. — How awful ! 
He is deceiving me ! I know it ! And I loved 
him so ! — What a fool I've been ! There wasn't 
a day I didn't think of it, look forward to the 
time he'd be coming back from the office, to our 
little dinner all to ourselves, and the evenings we'd 
spend together. I was so happy, so confident ! — 
What a life I have before me ! — I never deserved 
this blow ! 

Marie. My dear Adele! Don't go on that 
way ! If I had known all this was going to hap- 
pen, I should never have repeated what I heard ! 
Now be brave. You really have no proofs, you 
know. How do you know you're not the victim 
of an awful lie? Ask your husband, be very care- 

2IO 



THE DUPE 



ful how — then you'll have time to decide what 
you want to do. 

Adele, You're right — I must first be posi- 
tive — I must know. Perhaps I am jumping at 
conclusions. — Sh ! There's his key in the lock ! 
I'll speak to him. 

Marie. My dear Adele, be calm, though. — • 
I'll leave you alone with him. Courage, now! — 
Oh, if I'd only known before! What a fool I 
am! Will you forgive me? After all, I've only 
done my duty as a sister. 

[Enter Albert.'] 

Albert. You here? [To Adele.] I'm very 
sorry: I was kept — couldn't help it — met a 
friend — 

Marie. I'm going — I must get to bed. 
Eleven o'clock ! It's high time ! 

Albert. Eleven! That's right. I've been 
a whole hour! 

Marie. Good night. Poor dear! How I 
blame myself! 

[She goes out.] 

Albert. I really don't like coming in so late. 
— Old friend got hold of me in the street, and 
simply wouldn't let me go. I simply couldn't get 
away. 

Adele. Albert ! 

Albert. Yes? 

Adele. Look me in the eyes ! — You're de- 
ceiving me ! 

Albert. Why — ! 

Adele. You're deceiving me ! 

Albert. Adele, this is ridiculous — 

Adele. Swear that you're not — ! 

211 



FOUR PLAYS 



Albert [embarrassedli. If you want me to — 
of course I swear — 

Adele. How absurd of me to ask you ! I 
have only to look at you to see where youVe been ! 

Albert. Why, what's the matter? 

Adele [snatching off his collar and tie~\. 
You're not even dressed! This collar isn't fas- 
tened ! The tie is not tied — 

Albert. It was so warm in the street! 

Ajdele. Not in the street! Deny it if you 
can! 

Albert. Well, then, I don't! And be 
damned to you! 

Adele. My God, it's true! And I adored 
you ! I was yours, body and soul ! I lived only 
for you ! Now, it's all over. — But I still have 
some pride left! Don't imagine I'll stay here 
now, live with you, and take care of you ! Never ! 
I could never stand this ! Now you may do what 
you like ! Spend my dowry on your woman if 
you want! I won't be here — I'm going to my 
mother ! Good-by ! All this — this — Oh — 
help me — give me your arm — I — I can't — 

\^She falls on the sofa in a faint. ~\ 

Albert. Fainted! Adele, Adele! Poor lit- 
tle woman ! — I am a beast ! A brute ! \_A 
pause.] Well, what now? [He rubs her hands, 
while speaking. ~\ The whole thing was absurd! 
I told Caroline not to detain me ! Now what'll 
she do? Adele will go to her mother; she at 
least will not refuse to see me ! Will she, though ? 
Of course? And Adele loves me too well to 
leave me. — Well, there's no great harm. She 
had to find out, some day! It's happened this 

212 



THE DUPE 



evening. I'm glad it's all over. We won't have 
any more trouble on that score, then. It's really 
much better this way. I like things perfectly 
open. — Whew, my hand is tired — she doesn't 
seem to be coming to. — I wonder what she'll say 
when she sees me? Cry, I suppose, and make a 
scene! — She's breathing regularly now. Good! 

— No more danger. I think I'll spare her my 
presence, and send the maid to look after her. 
Be so delicate ! — I'll make it all up to her later. 

— Whew! I'm tired! [Yawning.^ I'm going 
to bed. 

\^He rings the hell, which is to the right of the 
fireplace, and goes out.~\ 



[Curtain.] 



213 



ACT III 

[Scene: The same as in the preceding acts, 
Mme. Viot, Marie, Adele, and Albert are 
present.^ 

Albert. Have a nice dinner, Mother-in-law? 

Mme. Viot. We always have nice dinners at 
your house. 

Albert. Good. — I'm in splendid spirits, 
aren't you? 

Mme. Viot. I should think sol 

Albert. This is indeed pleasant, now. [To 
Adele.'] Isn't it? And to think that three years 
ago, she wanted to leave me, go back to her 
mother! Do you remember, Adele? And for 
what reason? Because I was not a model hus- 
band! Heavens, who is a model in this life? 
Not even you, in spite of your recent access of 
rehgion ! 

Adele. If I lack something, it is because the 
good Lord isn't quite enough to insure my happi- 
ness ! 

Albert. Kiss me ! How I love her ! How 
I love her ! My life would be empty without her. 
She is — she is an angel ! Dear Adele ! 

Adele. It's all so strange. The evening I 
left here, after I fainted, I swore I would never 
put foot in the house again! I loathed, I hated 

214 



THE DUPE 



you ! But Mama talked and reasoned with me — 
then I came back. I'm not sorry for it — that is 
enough ! 

Albert. Charming! 

Mme. Viot. You may well say it! 

Albert. And I do. — And your dear sister, 
too. She doesn't say anything, but look at her: 
working — 

Marie. Yes. 

Albert. Trousers for that youngster of 
yours? 

Marie. Yes. How fast he wears them out! 
How much he costs me, just for his trousers! 
The little rascal! 

Albert. Why didn't you bring him this even- 
ing? We might have played soldiers! 

Marie. When he's with you, he's so naughty! 

Albert. But very amusing! Wouldn't it be 
splendid to have a little fellow like that! [To 
Adele.'] Ah, Adele — I don't blame you ! 

Marie. Oh, well, let's hope — ! If you're 
serious — ! 

Albert [/o Marie']. You, you're a great one ! 
— When does your husband return from Mar- 
seilles ? 

Marie. To-morrow. 

Albert. I'll tell him what you said. [To 
Mme. Viot.] Don't you agree with me? And 
you, dear Mother-in-law, you're simply wonder- 
ful! It's not my fault if I don't understand life 
as you do. I have the very devil of a disposition. 
Really, you do carry your — how many? — years : 
forty? Forty-five? 

Mme. Viot. Flatterer! 
215 



FOUR PLAYS 



Albert. But you like me to — to say these 
little things, to you, eh? 

Mme. Viot. Yes — I'd rather hear agree- 
able than disagreeable things. 

Albert. Ah ! — Look, what's the dear lady 
knitting now? A comfortable for me? 

Mme. Viot. For the poor. 

Albert. The poor! She's always thinking 
of the poor! See here! I'm not going out this 
evening, I'm going to stay with my mother-in-law ! 
No escapades to-day — bosom of the family and 
conjugal love ! 

Mme. Viot. Adorable boy ! 

Albert. But take care ! One compliment 
too many and I'll take fright and go farther than 
you like! You laugh, but I'm serious. — When 
you're too free with me, I'm not responsible — 

Mme. Viot. What a dear! [Suddenly be- 
coming pensive,'] That's the way he's always 
played on our feelings. You make us forget your 
bad actions so soon ! 

Albert. Who ? 

Mme. Viot. Tell me, you bad boy, how much 
Is left of my daughter's dowry? Nothing! And 
yours? And the money you got from your 
parents ? Not a sou ! Between the two of you, 
you've squandered nearly a million francs ! You 
have only your 15,000 francs' income to live on. 
And who gets a half of that? I don't dare men- 
tion the name! And I thought it was a great 
stroke of business to marry my daughter to you ! 

Albert. That's funny! 

Mme. Viot. You certainly ran through that 
fortune fast enough. 

216 



THE DUPE 



Albert. Yes, fast enough ! But then I'm a 
good fellow. 

Mme. Viot. Yes, you are ! — You're not in 
debt any longer, are you? You're not going to 
come to me again, as you did six months ago, and 
wheedle me into giving you my savings, for cer- 
tain debts, gambling and others? Don't you ever 
win at your club? 

Albert. Never ! 

Adele. Let's not talk about that. Mother. 
It's so painful! 

Albert [^laughing']. Ah, your mother! 
Look at her face when she talks of money ! 

Mme. Viot. Oh, well, I — I must have money 
to live on. A great deal! You can never have 
too much. But I'm quite happy now; this morn- 
ing I did a good stroke of business. I had a neat 
little pile of savings in my drawer; I took it to 
my broker, laid it all on his desk — twenty-five 
franc pieces, bills all tied together in little heaps 
of ten. He looked at me over the top of his 
spectacles — I took my time about it. After I'd 
counted it all — and it took a long time ! — I said 
to him: " Put it all in good solid stocks. Good 
morning, M. Robillet! " He shook hands with 
me and bowed ! — That's the sort of thing, I say, 
that's decidedly pleasant ! 

Albert. You are the queen of mothers-in- 
law, and Adele is the queen of women! Work, 
my child! Respect the time-honored virtues: the 
thimble, the thread, and the needle — " Of those 
who worked for their daughters' trousseaux" — 
Who said that? 

Adele. Regnard, wasn't it? 
217 



FOUR PLAYS 



Mme. Viot. No, no: Beranger! 

Albert. Yes, of course. 

Mme. Viot. What charming songs he's writ- 
ten, that Beranger ! There's one my grandfather 
used to sing, I remember. 

Albert. Whew ! They used to sing Beran- 
ger to you ? 

Marie. What was the song? 

Albert. Sing it to us! 

Mme. Viot. I don't remember it all. 

Albert. The book is in my room, on the 
shelf. \_To J dele.] Get it for your mother. 
[Adele goes out.] We'll sing it together: the 
matriarch singing in the midst of her children ! 
The couplets of youth repeated in the accents of 
maturity. Ha! Ha! — \^He takes Mme. Viot 
in his arms.] Now — ! Can you remember? 

\^Re-enter Adele with the hook and a letter.] 

Adele [to Albert]. A note that was just 
brought for you. 

Albert [taking the letter]. Thanks. 

Mme. Viot. [who has been reading]. 
There, I knew it: *' Lisette's Infidelities J' 

Albert. Yes, I remember it. 

Mme. Viot: [singing, accompanied by Albert], 



Oh, dear Lisette 
Whose charms divine 
Make my regret! 
Oh, how I pine ! 
Thy cold disdain 
I clearly see: 
My sorrow's vain, 
Thou'rt false to me I 
218 



THE DUPE 



Albert. \^singing loudly, as he opens the let- 
ter'] . 

'' LIsette, Lisette, 
Thou'rt false to me! 
Long life, grisette ! 
Long life, Lisette, 
So drink to our love. 

Oh, Heavens — \^He interrupts, himself, terri- 
fied.] Adele, Mme. Viot! Mme. Chesneau! 
This is horrible ! If you don't save me, I'm 
ruined ! 

Adele. My God ! What is it ? Tell us ! 

Marie. Tell us ! 

Mme. Viot. What is it? 

Albert. If I don't have 200,000 francs by 
to-morrow morning, anything may happen to me ! 

Mme. Viot. Why? 

Albert. Why? Why? This is why — 
well, it's not easy to say. Don't insist, please — 
please! I don't dare ! 

Adele. Explain it; you must. What's the 
trouble ? 

Mme. Viot. We must know ! — 

Albert. It's a regular whirlwind — once you 
get started, there's no stopping! Horrible! — 
That damned Caroline ! I told her no good would 
come of it ! She hasn't the sense of a child ! 

Mme. Viot. Never mind that woman ! Tell 
us, now. 

Albert. Here then: since you so insist. I 
was terribly hard pressed for money, and at one 
time or another I took 200,000 francs of the com- 
pany's funds. 

219 



FOUR PLAYS 



All. Oh! 

Mme. Viot. Lovely surprise! 

Albert. If I don't refund the money to-mor- 
row morning I'm ruined, dishonored, sent to jail! 
The directors have written that they are coming 
to inspect the office at eleven o'clock. They 
won't handle me with kid gloves, I can tell you ! 
Swooping down on me like that ! I'm not a regu- 
lar thief, I suppose ! I always meant to put it 
back, you know ! 

Mme. Viot. They all say that, but they never 
do it. 

Albert. I couldn't, it wasn't my fault. I 
counted on another affair — which didn't mate- 
rialize. 

Mme. Viot. My death, of course! 

Albert. No more than on anything else. 
I'm not to blame. You'll pay, won't you? I 
haven't a sou. Wait, yes : one hundred francs ! 
Say something, for the love of Heaven! 

Mme. Viot. You're a good-for-nothing! 
That's what I say! 

Albert. Madame! 

Mme. Viot. A good-for-nothing, I repeat! 
\_In an altered voice.'] But are you sure the di- 
rectors are coming to-morrow? 

Albert. Absolutely. 

Mme. Viot. Fool! 

Albert. Instead of insulting me, you might 
help me parry the blow. Now, Mme. Viot, an- 
swer me : I've got to get out of this. Loan me 
200,000 francs! Only till to-morrow, till noon! 
Just let me have them in the safe when they come. 
I'll give them to you an hour after the directors 

220 



THE DUPE 



leave. That's an idea 1 Come, say something — 
yes or no? I don't like you to be saying nothing 
at all !^ 

Adele. Let Mama have time to collect her 
thoughts, dear. Meantime, perhaps we can think 
of another way out of the difficulty. 

Albert. You know very well there is no 
other. 

Adele. That's true: we have nothing. I see 
no way out — unless — yes, that will pay part of 
it — perhaps Mama will consent to pay the rest. 

Albert. What do you mean? 

Adele. Why, if my dowry is all gone, I still 
have my laces — worth about 15,000 francs — 
then there are my jewels. 

Albert. Good! Where are they? 

Adele. In the desk drawer. 

Albert. I'll get them. [He goes out.'] 

Marie. Poor child! This is awful! To 
have to sell your jewels, at your age ! It's a pity ! 

Adele. What else can we do? We have no 
time to lose. I'll sell them in the morning. 

[Albert re-enters.] 

[To Albert]. You have them? 

Albert. All. 

Adele. Lay them on the table. Now give 
me a pencil and paper. Thanks. Lamp is low ! 
[She turns up the wick.] There. — 200,000 
francs, you say? Here's my diamond necklace. 
[While she is speaking, Marie hands her the 
jewel boxes which she opens.] What can I get 
for it? 25,000, let us say! How beautiful they 
are, this one especially! [To Marie.] Pretty, 
aren't they? Here's the bracelet: 4000. Now 

221 



FOUR PLAYS 



the cameo necklace — I've worn it only twice 
— 4,000. Ear-rings: 5,000. [Taking them 
off.^ They stick a little — not used to coming 
oft! [Taking of her rings.'] Now the rings; 
the turquoises : 2,000. — I want to keep the ruby, 
it's my engagement ring! 

Mme. Vict. Pleasant souvenir! 

Albert. Sell it anyway ! 

Adele. No, I don't want to sell it ! 

Mme. Viot. Pll buy back your earrings ! For 
the sake of the family, I don't want you to part 
with them. Put them on again. 

Adele. Thank you ! Thank you ! 

Mme. Viot. Don't thank me. 

Adele. That makes 55,000 francs I can fur- 
nish. That's all. Now, Mama? 

Mme. Viot. Don't try to argue with me: I 
shan't pay a sou ! 

Adele. You refuse?! It's impossible! 

Albert. Now, Madame ! — 

Mme. Viot. Not a word from you, you miser- 
able sneak! 

Albert. Can't you listen to reason? 

Mme. Viot. No impudence, please! 

Albert. I'm no more impudent than you. 

Mme. Viot. What's that? 

Albert. No more impudent than you, I say! 

Mme. Viot. You repeat it ? I'm going home ! 

Albert. Sulky! 

Mme. Viot. Sulky?! Sulky?! 

Albert. Yes ! 

Mme. Viot. Take care, young man! I'll 
take hold of you — ! 

Albert. Scratch me, won't you? 
222 



THE DUPE 



Mme. Viot [^going toward Albert']. Yes, I 
will! I'll — ! 

Marie [^interfering]. Mama! What a dis- 
graceful scene ! What if any one should come in ! 
Really — ! 

Adele. We're all very much upset — let's put 
an end to this. We must find 145,000 francs 
now. 

Mme. Viot. I won't pay a sou ! I won't see 
your grandfather's good money slip through this 
sieve ! The poor old man would blush from 
Heaven if he saw me doing it ! 

Albert. Then, Madame, I shall be dishon- 
ored! 

Mme. Viot. I won't pay, so there ! If you 
were a real man, you would have blown your 
brains out twenty times by now instead of lower- 
ing yourself by asking me for the money ! 

Albert. My dear good lady, you're losing 
your senses. 

Mme. Viot. Don't you call me your " dear 
good lady " ! If I'm losing my senses, isn't it 
enough to make me with an idiot like you, — ? 

Albert. But think of the good name of the 
family ! 

Mme. Viot. The good name of the family has 
nothing to do with the case. Monsieur ! Any one 
can tell you that ! Every one knows my husband 
was a judge, that my grandfather was an advocate 
at Paris and my brother a notary. They will keep 
up our good name ! The disgrace will be yours, 
and yours only ! 

Albert. Then you really refuse? Good! 
I know what to do now ! 

223 



FOUR PLAYS 



Adele. Mama, he's going to kill himself! 

Albert. No : I'm going to Brussels. 

Mme. Viot. Am I not right, Marie? 

Marie. I think you had better pay, Mama 
' — for the sake of your grandson — 

Albert [to Mme. Fiot]. You can afford it, 
you're rich ! You admit having 600,000 francs, 
but you have a million ! 

Mme. Viot [furiously] . I'm not rich ! — And 
what if I were ? I couldn't keep my money long, 
Heaven knows! "You're rich!" Lovely! 
Haven't I plenty of ways to spend my money? 
That fool carriage, which I never use — that you 
force me to keep for the sake of appearances ! 
Only this morning do you know what I paid my 
architect? A hundred and fifteen francs just for 
fixing the roof! 

Adele. But that's not what we're discussing, 
Mama! 

Mme. Viot. And the taxes ! What taxes the 
Government makes me pay! They're a pack of 
thieves ! This is a fine Republic that Monsieur 
there helps support ! Ha ! — Meantime, I pay ! 
The big fortunes of twenty years ago are hardly 
enough to run a poor man's family now. And 
you talk of getting more money out of me ! It's 
ridiculous. Everybody's against me ! Not one 
of you takes my side ! At my age there's only 
one thing for me to do: live in the desert or the 
work-house ! That's a fine idea now. Then 
you'd be rid of me. I could get along on a thou- 
sand francs a year, and then you could squander 
my fortune to your heart's content! 

224 



THE DUPE 



Marie. Well, if you ask my advice, I'll tell 
you what I think. 

Mme. Viot. Thank you, dear children. Fll 
tell you one thing, though : in my father's house, no 
one would have dared raise his voice against 
mother, — the way you're doing this moment. 
You should have heard your poor uncle trying to 
discuss and advise. 

Marie. Wouldn't they let him even when they 
asked for his advice? 

Mme. Viot. Not even then! My father 
would have sent him to his room, and told him to 
mind his own business. But times have changed, 
no one respects his parents nowadays — ! 

Adele. But we respect you. Mama ! 

Mme. Viot [furiously]. You don't! You 
don't respect me ! I'm going home, sell my furni- 
ture, lock the door, and leave — to-morrow morn- 
ing — 

Albert. For the work-house ! 

Mme. Viot. No, for my house In the country, 
at Romilly. I'm going to spend the rest of my life 
In the woods — with the animals — that treat me 
better than human beings ! There at least I 
won't be troubled with children who take all my 
money — sons-in-law that insult and disgrace me ! 

Albert. Good! Then don't pay! It was 
only for your sake I said anything about this mat- 
ter. Now I know what to do. I'm going to live 
In Brussels, where I have good friends. I'll be- 
gin all over again. I won't listen to any more of 
your rigmaroles ! Not a bit of It. I exposed the 
whole situation to you: frankly, honestly, ami- 

225 



FOUR PLAYS 



cably. Now I wash my hands of it. Only, I 
must confess that I am greatly surprised. I had 
thought that a good sensible woman like you 
would have preferred to make a small temporary 
sacrifice to having a son-in-law in Belgium ! You 
could have had your money back any time you 
cared to ask for it. It would be in the bank, as 
safe as could be. But I shan't say anything more : 
if you're tired of my sermonizing, so am I. Bet- 
ter come to some decision among yourselves. I 
give you an hour ! 

[He pours out a glass of water for himself.'] 

Mme. Viot. You are giving us a sermon now ! 

Albert. Do you want me to go? 

Adele. No, stay. Don't hsten to him. 
Mama ! Really, you're not very generous ! 

Mme. Viot. What? Aren't you satisfied with 
his having squandered your whole dowry? Do 
you want him to squander your inheritance ? 

Adele. His interests just now are greater than 
mine. You say that we don't keep together very 
well as a family. You've told me twenty times 
that the members of a family ought to help one 
another in times of danger. You ought to prac- 
tise what you preach ! Think of the dishonor this 
affair would be to all of us. Think of your grand- 
son too; you have no right to compromise his 
future. He will marry some day, he will try to 
marry into an honorable family. He'll not be 
able to: people won't allow their daughters to 
form alliances with such as we are. — You must 
pay, you see. Our honor, our peace of mind, 
forces you to do it, not to speak of our reputation 
and even our common material interests. If I 

226 



THE DUPE 



can't persuade you, then just think it all over to 
yourself. What would father have done? 

Mme. Viot. Your father? 

Adele. Father would have payed. 

Mme. Viot [after a pause]. Do what you 
like, only I warn you, you shan't touch my stocks 
in the Eastern Railway. 

Albert. But those are the easiest to dispose 
of at once. 

Mme. Viot. You shan't touch them ! 

Adele. Then where can we get the money? 

Mme. Viot. Ask Marie, she knows about my 
business affairs. 

Marie. I know nothing whatsoever. — My 
time is spent only in being with you and loving you. 
Mama! 

Adele. How are we to go about raising the 
money? Do you get Immediate cash on notes? 

Mme. Viot. Ask your husband! He knows 
about notes ! 

Adele. Very well. — - You said the other day 
that you had 100,000 francs' worth of Eastern 
Railway stocks at your broker's. 

Marie. A hundred and seven thousand five 
hundred. 

Mme. Viot. I think I said something about 
not touching those stocks ! 

Adele. Well, we — 

Mme. Viot. Try the Andalusian Railway^ not 
the others. 

Adele. Are they good? I don't know. Al- 
bert, you ought to ? 

Albert. No, they don't move. Can't sell 
them! 

227 



FOUR PLAYS 



Mme. Viot. How's that? They went down 
lately — they certainly do move ! 

Albert. We're joking! 

Mme. Viot. Well, then, sell the Eastern 
Stocks, if you insist! Only you're robbing me; I 
will say that. 

Adele [writing]. 107,500 plus 55,000. That 
makes — 

Mme. Viot. Ha ! 

Adele [hesitating]. 160 

Mme. Viot. 162,500! 

Adele. There are still 42,500 francs needed. 
We'll get that from your other holdings: 
Orleans Railway, Paris-Lyons, Mediterranean, 
etc. 

Mme. Viot. What about the Andalusian 
Railway? 

Adele [without listening]. That makes 205,- 
000 francs. — Five thousand too much ! 

Mme. Viot [satirically]. And some more 
while you are about it ! 

Adele. What's the matter? 

Mme. Viot. Your addition is wrong. 

Albert [embarrassed]. No, it's right. I 
took 205,000 francs from the office — I said 200,- 
000 before, because It was a convenient sum. 

Adele. See, Mother? 

Mme. Viot. I do see. But I refuse to give 
the extra 5000 francs! 

Adele. What are 5000 francs when you're 
already paying 145,000? 

Mme. Viot [calmly]. I refuse! 

Adele. For the sake of your grandchild ! 
228 



THE DUPE 



Mme. Viot. I refuse ! 

Marie. The stocks are in your desk in the Ht- 
tle parlor! 

Mme. Viot [throwing her keys on the floor^. 
There ! Take my keys. You're robbers ! 
Now, whoever of you two dares pick up the keys, 
I swear before the Lord I will disinherit ! — 

\_Marie, who has stooped to pick up the keys, 
quickly rises.^ 

Adele [picking them up. — To Albert^. 
Come ! 

[Adele and Albert go out.'\ 

Marie [after a pause']. Let's at least follow 
them. We don't want them to turn everything up- 
side down! 

Mme. Viot. Of course not. 

Marie. When we're alone, we must have a 
little talk. 

Mme. Viot. About what? 

Marie. The future. A thing like this might 
happen more than once with a son-in-law like 
Albert. He'd ruin us all ! 

Mme. Viot. But what can we do about it? 

Marie. Of course, I advise against divorce — 
it would be against the Church, but a separa- 
tion — ! 

Mme. Viot. No, no, no. Once lose hold of 
Albert, and I'd never see my money again ! 

Marie. Would you prefer to have him run 
through another 200,000? 

Mme. Viot. Besides, you can't get a separa- 
tion for that reason. 

Marie. We're quite within our rights. Two 
229 



FOUR PLAYS 



or three times Albert has brought this mistress 
here — this summer — I know it ! — While you 
and Adele were at Romilly ! 

Mme. Viot. But what will people say? 

Marie. That you are making the best of a bad 
job. It was an unwise marriage. I advised you 
against it, God knows ! 

[They go out, left.'] 



[Curtain.] 



230 



ACT IV 

{The same scene as in the preceding acts, 
Adele is present. Marie enters a moment 
later, 'I 

Marie. How are you? 

Adele. Well, thanks, dear. Sit down. 

Marie. I'm not in the way? 

Adele. No, no. Albert is still at the office. 
I felt a little lonely, all by myself. 

Marie. I wanted to say something about Al- 
bert. How Is he behaving? 

Adele. He's lovely, very kind and consider- 
ate just now. He seems very much cut up over 
what's happened. I feel that he bitterly repents 
It, and is doing everything he can to make amends 
for that affair of nearly a year ago. 

Marie. Yes. — 

Adele. The other evening he took me to the 
theater — that's an Indication. He doesn't do It 
often. Heaven knews ! That's a sure sign of his 
repentance. 

Marie. How about the money he owes 
Mama ? Does he think about that — ever ? 

Adele. I'm always talking to him about It. 
I have to be very careful, for he doesn't like to be 
reminded. But business Is business — this year 
hasn't been a very good one for us : stocks haven't 
been paying dividends. So you understand — 

231 



FOUR PLAYS 



Marie. Yes, it is bothersome. Of course if 
we were only sure of the future, everything would 
be all right. Unfortunately, we're not. Who 
knows? A character of his sort — not sure of 
himself, you know — then that woman, who 
seems to have a greater hold on him than ever. 
And that money-box, always within his reach, to 
which he alone has the key! I'm afraid to think 
ofit!^ 

Adele. Let's not say anything about it, 
please! 

Marie. But we must ! 

Adele. Why ? We can do nothing. 

Marie. We can discuss the matter. 

Adele. Discuss? 

Marie. Yes. 

Adele. What do you mean by that? 

Marie. I mean — that Mama thinks so too. 
I'm only speaking for her, you understand? If 
I were the only one concerned, why then — ! 
Such matters don't interest me personally in the 
least! 

Adele. Dear sister! 

Marie. How I've had to take your part 
against Mama ! Do you know, she blames you 
now for everything — just as if it were your fault, 
dear! 

Adele. Poor Mama ! She'll never forgive 
me for all this trouble. But it's really not been 
my fault. 

Marie. I said we might discuss ways and 
means in order to guard against another catas- 
trophe in the future. The best plan would be a 
simple separation from your husband. 

232 



THE DUPE 



Adele. You want me to apply for a separa- 
tion? What would Albert do without me? 

Marie. Think, my dear, think. It's for your 
good. Really, you're not In love with your hus- 
band. What if he should play some new pranks 
— think what would happen? We've all suf- 
fered, you especially, from his reckless extrava- 
gance — and poor Mama ! She's broken-hearted 
to see all her savings go like this. It's taken her 
nearly a year to recover from that last shock. 
She's aged ten years ! She had such a splendid 
appetite, and now she hardly eats anything at all. 
She's merely the wreck of her former self. 
[Overcome with emotion.^ What — what If we 
should lose her?! 

Adele. But Mama is very well. 

Marie. There you're mistaken. 

Adele. Not at all ! 

Marie. My heart tells me I know the truth. 
You, for Instance, what state do you Imagine you 
are in now? 

Adele. I'm very well. 

Marie. Very well? My dear sister, don't 
deceive yourself: you've changed vastly. Mama 
and I have spent many a sleepless night worrying 
about you — your hollow cheeks, sunk eyes, 
those awful headaches of yours! You look like 
a little martyr ! You might easily succumb to new 
shocks — the life your husband Is leading might 
— ^^what If we should lose you? If God were to 
take you from us ! I'm sick at the very thought ! 
No, no, not that! to lose you, little sister! I can't 
even think of It! — Make It a legal separation, 
do! 

233 



FOUR PLAYS 



Adele. Don't be alarmed, dear, I'm per- 
fectly well. 

Marie. A sister's heart cannot be mistaken ! 

Adele. But it is, for I'm in perfect health. 

Marie. Really? 

Adele. Yes ! 

Marie. Then — 

Adele. Let's not say anything more about 
it — 

Marie. You certainly are to be pitied. I 
understand your troubles and worries. This 
everlasting wrangling is a terrible thing in a family 
like ours. The situation is very critical. Now, 
you're a reasonable person; I ask you, have you 
the right to drag your mother and sister into all 
this? Sacrifice us? 

Adele. What — you ? 

Marie [sweetly]. Yes, me ! You really must 
have some consideration for others. I at least 
have some rights. And our dear mother — whom 
God spare to us a long while yet ! — cannot live 
forever! I can't allow Albert to go on squan- 
dering money as he does, and endanger my 
own future. On Mama's death I am to get 300,- 
000 francs. Up to now, your share only has been 
touched — but a man like your husband wouldn't 
stop short of taking the whole fortune. Your 
nephew too must not be forgotten. He mustn't 
be deprived of his share. No, Mama is no longer 
young, and I must think of these things. We 
must keep a careful guard on the money that re- 
mains — the money that will one day be ours — 
and see that Mama doesn't use it up. What do 
you say? Tell me. 

234 



THE DUPE 



Adele [energetically, after a paiise^. No, I 
shall not ask for a separation! 

Marie. You're wrong, child. 

Adele. But you're considering only the 
financial side of the question. 

Marie. What other side is there — in your 
relations with Albert? 

Adele. A great deal that you don't seem to 
take into account. First there is love, the basis of 
family life. 

Marie. Money is the basis of family life. 

Adele. I don't agree with you. — Then there's 
my duty as a Christian wife : I should stand by 
my husband and obey him — 

Marie. How about your mother? 

Adele. Not now! Anyway, I want Albert! 

Marie. A man of his sort ! 

Adele [nettled]. Yes, a man of his sort! I 
advise you not to say anything against him. He's 
very intelligent, and he's a hard and faithful 
worker. That engine he invented — it was all in 
the papers — not every one can do that ! 

Marie [also nettled]. Do you say that for 
my husband's benefit? 

Adele. For him — and everybody, my dear. 

Marie. Gustave's name has not appeared in 
the newspapers, but he might have it if he liked! 

Adele. What did he invent? 

Marie. You persist in attacking him? 
-Adele. You attacked Albert; I don't see why 
I shouldn't do the same to Gustave? 

Marie. But — 

Adele [tenderly]. Let's drop it, please. Al- 
bert is good to me, tender and loving. Some- 

235 



FOUR PLAYS 



times he caresses me, and says my hair is prettier 
than hers — the other's. And I'm so grateful! 
I think him charming, and he's my husband. 

Marie. What difference does that make? 

Adele. I love him ! If you want to know the 
whole truth : I've struggled hard — I may be 
weak — but I am in the right, I believe — I be- 
long to him body and soul, in spite of his infi- 
delity — I simply can't do without him. 

Marie [disgusted]. Oh! 

Adele. It's all very well for you to talk, with 
a husband like yours ! 

Marie. If Gustave ever deceived me, all 
would be over between us ! 

Adele. Well, I forgave my husband. I once 
thought of leaving him, when I first learned the 
truth, — put an end to everything in true dramatic 
style. I tried to go away, but you and Mama per- 
suaded me to return to him. Even then I strug- 
gled against my inclinations, I hardly spoke a word 
to him, — avoided him. I even went to my con- 
fessor about it. My youth, my enthusiasm — all 
— in time I again became his wife, and I was only 
too happy to find that he still had some affection 
for me ! 

Marie. But think of your situation now ! To 
think that Albert brazenly speaks to you about his 
mistress, in your ordinary conversation! Con- 
sider what your love will lead you to ! You're 
only a tool in his hands — you're bound hand and 
foot. See what your weakness has already cost 
you ! How much more may it cost ! Now if you 
would only consent to a separation — 

Adele. No, no, no, I'll not consent. That 
236 



THE DUPE 



would be too terrible. I feel positive of that. I 
am a little ashamed, and I do suffer; perhaps I'm 
condemning myself to a life of torture, to ruin and 
misery — but I don't care. Call it passion, worse 
than passion; Albert is necessary to my life. You 
may tell that to Mama, to your husband, to every- 
body. Your " financial " questions don't inter- 
est me. And then, you ought to leave me with my 
husband, for you gave him to me ! 

Marie [after a pause~\. Very well! I'm not 
the only one concerned. I am authorized to say 
that if you don't consent to an immediate separa- 
tion, Mama will have nothing further to do with 
you. 

Adele. Mama? 

Marie. Yes — she Is very angry with you. 
Now what do you say? 

Adele. So much the worse ! 

Marie. Good. Only I advise you to per- 
suade your husband to pay his debt. Pressure 
may be brought to bear on him. 

Adele. You are right. It will be very hard, 
but I'll do my best. I'll sacrifice. If need be. 

Marie. You know my feelings toward you, 
dearest. Don't consider me : I've done my best 
to smooth things over. You don't blame me, do 
you? I'd be so sorry! 

Adele. No, my dear sister, I know your love 
for me ! 

Marie. Kiss me. 

Adele [kissing her]. With all my heart! 

Marie. And now, good-by. Speak to your 
husband. 

Adele. As soon as he comes. 
237 



FOUR PLAYS 



[Marie goes out.^ 

Adele. Mama have nothing more to do with 
me ? How queer that sounds ! When I was a lit- 
tle girl and heard about children falling out with 
their parents, it seemed ridiculous — especially on 
the part of the children. Now here / am ! And 
am I really to blame? Not to see Mama any 
more ! I remember when she took me to school, 
and scolded me in the street: "Walk quickly 
now, or we'll be late ! " If I could only make Al- 
bert pay! He could if he wanted to. I'll speak 
to him to-night. I hope I'm successful this time ! 
There he is — courage ! 

[Enter Albert.} 

Adele. Good evening, dear ! 

Albert. Good evening. 

Adele. I'm so glad to see you ! 

Albert. Is dinner nearly ready? 

Adele. It isn't time yet. No — only half 
past six. 

Albert. I'm very busy: I must go out. 

Adele. I'll have dinner hurried. 

Albert. Please. 

Adele. You'll like the dinner — too bad you 
haven't much time. There's some lovely lamb, 
with potatoes — and — what do you think? 
Souffle with apricots! You like that, don't you? 

Albert. Yes, yes. 

Adele. See how I think of you ! But that's 
not all. I made a great find at the Bon Marche. 
Guess? 

Albert. I'm no good at guessing. 

Adele. Ties : the kind you like — satin, that 
you tie yourself. 

238 



THE DUPE 



Albert. Like Colin's? 

Adele. Isn't that the kind you like? 

Albert. Oh, yes, they're as good as any other. 

Adele. They're beautiful shades: two blue 
ones with white spots, two black ones with blue 
figures. You can wear one for this evening. 
Would you like to see them? 

Albert. I don't care. Leave them in my 
room. 

Adele. I got you some gloves too — you'll 
like them — 

Albert. Yes, yes, good ! 

Adele. Nice of me, wasn't it? You can't say 
I don't take good care of you, can you? — Why 
don't you kiss your wife? 

Albert. There ! [He kisses her perfunc- 
torily. A pause.'] 

Adele. Business picking up? Are you more 
hopeful? 

Albert \_reading a newspaper]. About the 
same. 

Adele. No rise? 

Albert. No rise, no rise. You can't tell. 
Business is business, it changes from day to day. 
I don't like to discuss these matters with women: 
they understand nothing about it all. Let me read 
my paper. I'm out of humor! [A pause.] 

Adele. • I know it's not pleasant, but while 
we're on the subject, you must remember that we 
owe Mama money: 150,000 francs, of which we 
haven't paid back one sou. 

Albert. I advise you to ask for money now ! 
Caroline asked for some this morning — Ha ! 

Adele. It isn't for myself! Mama has the 
239 



FOUR PLAYS 



right to ask for her money. [Fery quietly.] 
That money was a loan, not a gift ! 

Albert. Your mother is an old miser — I'll 
not trouble with her! 

Adele. Mama wants to keep the family for- 
tune intact. She's very conservative about it; she 
belongs to the old school. She would never get 
over it if the fortune at her death were less than 
what it was when she inherited it. It's only to her 
credit that she feels as she does. 

Albert. I tell you she's an old miser ! 

Adele. That doesn't make us any less her 
debtors. You can't imagine how worried I am 
over this. You know how I economize ! My 
household expenses are very small, I wear dresses 
for three years, our table is quite modest — two 
courses at each meal — . And yet I can't save up 
enough to pay back more than a fraction. If you 
could only let me have a little more money. You 
spend a great deal yourself — I'm not blaming 
you — that's your affair, — only if you could econ- 
omize a little? If I could just give back a thou- 
sand francs ! It would be a load off my shoulders ! 
Think if she'd have nothing more to do with us — 

Albert. I'll pay everything back in due time. 
Meanwhile she may do what she likes. Do you 
want me to kill myself with work in order to flatter 
a miUionaire? 

Adele. My dear good sister — 

Albert. "Good" sister! Another of your 
notions ! 

Adele. However that may be, Marie told me 
just now that Mama was very angry with us. 

Albert. She can't disinherit you, can she? 
240 



THE DUPE 



There's the law, that's all that's necessary. I 
have a regular contract, thank God ! 

Adele. You might try to be on good terms 
with her I 

Albert. To be grateful? Rot! 

Adele. No, but I love Mama, and I want to 
avoid a rupture. 

Albert. Ha 1 Ha ! 

Adele [insisting]. Yet — we owe her 150,- 
000 francs. Think of it — if we could only — 

Albert [getting angry]. That's enough! 
And your mother can go hang ! She's been stingy 
enough lately. When I used to be in need of 
money, I managed to extract fifteen louis from 
her — when she was in the mood — . There was 
nothing wrong in that : I merely followed the ex- 
ample of your " good " sister. She knows how 
to exploit the old lady. She knows every move- 
ment — she keeps mighty close watch ! How do 
you know but that she'll take the 150,000 francs 
that are still due us? By God, if I felt sure of 
that I'd wring your sister's neck, that dear sister 
who bears, as she says, the same name as the Holy 
Virgin ! Little good it does me if I ask for money 
occasionally. Of course, you don't care, you're 
always up in the clouds ! It doesn't affect you ! / 
have responsibilities and worries, I have two house- 
holds to support! With you and Caroline — ! 
The pair of you! — If I only had your dowry 
now — ! Ha ! It's taken flight — not much, for 
that matter — a little two-by-four dowry that kept 
us hardly two years ! And now here your mother 
comes asking for her cursed money! Why 
doesn^t she ask me to support her, your sister, your 

241 



FOUR PLAYS 



brother-in-law, your nephew — the whole crew?! 
I see they're trying to make a fool of me. That's 
what they're doing! Let's cut it short now: I 
won't be the stalking horse for the family — 1 

Ax)ELE. How can you say that, dear? 

Albert. I repeat it: the stalking-horse of the 
whole family ! And I thought I was doing a good 
stroke of business ! Such — such indelicacy ! 
And she spends all her time casting that damned 
150,000 francs in my teeth. A pretty state of 
affairs ! And how I get blamed, whew ! Simply 
because they did me a favor any one would do ! 
As a rule when any one obliges a friend, he has 
the common decency not to make the obligation 
felt. The lender tries to make the borrower for- 
get. It should be a pleasure to do a fellow-being 
a service — the offer should be repeated ! It's 
one of the joys of life, and I pity the people who 
can't see it in that light. But this business, oh, 
my! And with me, who have been brought up 
where people have some delicacy of sentiment — 
Ha! 

Adele. You have no reason to complain. 

Albert. Of course I have. How can I live 
with people who don't understand me? I'm pay- 
ing back that money merely by remaining among 
you. And a fine family you are ! Sitting around 
all day knitting socks — with no culture, no knowl- 
edge of the world. A mother who is a miser, a 
sister not very different from her — a brother-in- 
law — ! Savages ! — And do you imagine that 
you are anything remarkable? Pretty? You've 
lived so long with your mother that you've begun 
to look like her. I sometimes mistake you for 

242 



THE DUPE 



her! Intelligent, spirituelle ? You do nothing but 
make trouble in the family, and get me disliked! 
You join them to make my life miserable! If 
you want to know the truth, you're a little fool, 
with your love and your whimpering and your 
prayers and your priests and your God ! Good 
Lord ! — And — Then our having no children — ! 
You— !i 

Adele. Albert ! 

Albert. Now about your mother — ! 

Adele {^cryin^, but with energy^. No, no, 
stop it! You have no right to say such terrible 
things about people who never did you wrong! I 
know you don't love me — but I won't allow you 
to say those things about my family — Never ! 

Albert [furiously']. And I tell you your 
mother is an old scarecrow, do you hear? 

Adele [choking], I advise you not to say any- 
thing more about my mother before me — ! Nor 
before any one else ! You are the last one who 
has a right to ! You know what might be said of 
you — ! 

Albert [enraged]. What? 

Adele. You know very well. 

Albert. Say it! 

Adele. I wouldn't take the trouble! I 
wouldn't ! 

Albert. Go on — I'd just like to hear. 

Adele. Very well, then — you have — stolen 
— There ! 

1 The exact lines ("Ton bon Dieu! . . . Couche done avec, 
puisque tu I'aimes tant ! II te fera peut-etre un enfant, lui ! 
Dire que tu n'as pas meme ete capable de faire un enfant!") 
are of a brutality so revolting that I have substituted a milder 
line, containing something of the spirit of the original. — Tr. 



FOUR PLAYS 



Albert [menacingly]. I'm a thief? I'm a 
thief? Now I'll show you how I appreciate the 
information ! 

Adele [terrified']. What — what are you go- 
ing to do ? 

Albert. I'm a thief, am I ? 

[He seizes her by the shoulders.] 

Adele. Albert — Albert — Don't! 

Albert. If you want to know : I detest you, 
hate you ! Get out, now ! I've seen enough of 
you! You damned — ! 

Adele. Let go ! Let go ! You're hurting 
me ! You have no right to treat me like this I 
Oh!— Help! I'm — ! 

Albert [throwing her to the floor]. There! 

Adele [in agony]. Oh! [Albert sits down. 
Adele slowly rises.] 

Albert [as if about to throw her down again]. 
Get out. 

[Adele goes out at the back.] 

Albert [calmly lighting a cigarette]. Feel re- 
lieved! [Dreamily]. I suppose she'll ask for a 
separation now ! 



[Curtain.] 



244 



ACT V 

[The same scene as in the preceding acts. 
A dele, Mme. Viot, and Marie are present.^ 

Mme. Viot. And how are you this evening, 
dear? 

Adele. Still a bit sick — It's my stomach. 

Mme. Viot. Come, now. It's nothing serious. 
You Imagine much worse than It Is. How you 
worry ! At my age I don't like to hear about sick- 
ness, you know. Don't pull that long face — be 
gay. We've come up to talk over a serious mat- 
ter. 

Adele. All right. Mama. 

Marie. Poor child! 

Mme. Viot. What are you working at? 

Adele. I'm knitting a vest for the poor. 

Mme. Viot. Lay it aside and listen to us. 
Marie, will you begin? 

Marie. No, Mama, I'd rather you did. In 
questions of money I'm so stupid. 

Adele. It's about money? Still? 

Mme. Viot. Yes. For six months you've been 
separated from your husband — your eyes were 
opened at last. You've been living practically 
with us, but now you must establish yourself 
permanently, so that the rights of all of us shall 
not suffer. At first I had thought of taking you 
with us, but our habits, our manner of living, are 

245 



FOUR PLAYS 



so different! You are, you must admit, a little 
hard to get along with — you are wilful, head- 
strong — we couldn't get on well, I fear. Then 
if I took you it would be as much as a confession of 
defeat before the world, and I don't want people 
to imagine that anything's wrong — for the sake 
of the good name of the family. In case they do 
suspect, I don't want to have it said that I was to 
blame. Here's what we've decided, your sister 
and I : we want you to live here, by yourself, com- 
fortably and respectably. 

Marie. Each of us in his own home — that's 
the best way. 

Mme. Viot. It's easy to see that you can't count 
on that 2,000 francs' alimony your husband should 
pay you. I know very well he can't afford the 
money. We've therefore arranged to allow you 
an income of 5,000 francs a year. The capital 
will be yours: about 150,000 francs — your share 
of the family fortune. That's the easiest way: 
then I shan't be bothered with continual requests 
for assistance. You may have your breakfasts 
with me. Isn't that fair? 

Adele. Yes, Mama, I see — 

Mme. Viot. You don't seem very satisfied. 
We've made out a complete budget for you. Lis- 
ten: 5,000 francs a year is 416 francs 30 cen- 
times a month. That's a good round sum ! 
Household expenses for yourself and two serv- 
ants — 

Adele. I'll not need the butler. 

Mme. Viot. And stay alone with the maid? 
Never! You must think of appearances! This 
money is not for amusements, you understand — 

246 



THE DUPE 



not to allow you to knit vests for the poor — you 
must live so that no one can point a finger at us. 
To continue : household expenses for you and two 
servants: 150 francs. That's plenty. Wages: 
130 francs. That leaves 136 — say 130. 
Clothes: nothing — nothing, too, for the upkeep 
of the house. As you make your own dresses, and 
take good care not to burn too much gas — you'll 
have more than enough. For that matter, you'll 
be richer than I ! But you can't do as you did at 
my place at lunch to-day — order a boiled egg 
when there were plenty of fried potatoes. An 
egg is an egg. 

Adele. I wasn't feeling well this morning — 

Mme. Viot. We'll let that pass. Now for your 
present lease : I'll leave that to you. I hope you 
will allow me to pay as little as possible. You 
see, you're really living on us. Don't forget that ! 

AioELE. No, Mama, I shan't. Only, while 
we're on the subject, there's one thing I should like 
to say. If I keep this apartment, 5,000 francs 
will be nothing at all — if I continue to live in the 
same style as before. With all your money, 
couldn't you afford — ? 

Mme. Viot. No, certainly not — if you begin 
to beg again — 

Adele. Consider that I've said nothing, if you 
get angry with me ! 

Mme. Viot. Well, I am. You're always that 
way: you're never satisfied. Haven't I done 
enough for you? If your children cost you as 
much as mine, I advise you to have very few ! 
That is, if you'd like to have a bite to eat in your 
old age ! 

247 



FOUR PLAYS 



Adele [sobbing.'] Mama, Mama, are you 
blaming me for all that's happened? I can't say 
a thing now, it seems, without your flying into a 
rage ! It's dreadful. 

Mme. Viot. It's more dreadful to be drained 
of your money, the way I've been ! 

Adele. Is that my fault? 

Mme. Viot. Perhaps it's mine? I advise you 
to complain! I've had a fine time between you 
and that husband of yours! A fine specimen you 
brought into the family ! 

Adele. Who picked him out for me? 

Mme. Viot. You should have resisted, or else 
managed to get along with him better, instead of 
always taking his part against me ! You've ad- 
mired him so much that you begin to look like him ! 
When I look at you, I tell you, I think it's he him- 
self— ! 

Adele. But — 

Mme. Viot. Of course, in one way he's a nice 
fellow — I can't deny that. He always behaved 
very decently to me. Only, like all men, he had 
to be led with a string. You spoiled him, you let 
him go — through your own weakness. You 
thought him wonderful, distinguished! When I 
think of a daughter of mine being so — so much 
the slave of her passions — Oh ! Like a common 
woman of the streets! That's the ruination of 
families ! You think it's all very well — you 
didn't have to pay the piper ! You just put your 
hand in other people's pockets — ! 

Adele. Mama ! 

Marie [apparently much moved]. Now, 
now! — 

248 



THE DUPE 



Mme. Viot. To think of all I was going to do 
with my money — I had a splendid opportunity — 
some stocks your poor father bought dirt-cheap 
just after the Revolution of '48. I had a lot of 
Bank of France stocks — I'd saved up for twenty 
years to buy them. Everybody said I was very 
lucky to get them. My friend, Mme. Renaudy, 
would have given anything to have them ! Then 
the Andalusian Railway — no, those you let me 
keep ! Thanks ! Then the Paris-Lyons, Medi- 
terranean, and the Orleans P.ailwayf And 
the Eastern! Thanks to you, the fortune laid up 
by generation after generation of honest men, and 
which I was proud to guard, has now dwindled so 
that I am actually ashamed — it's never happened 
before in our family — and now ! — while I was 
administering it ■ — ! 

Adele [sobbing]. I — I wish I had died 
long ago, and spared you' all this trouble you're 
now blaming me for ! 

Mme. Viot [furiously']. Good Heavens, 
there are times when I wonder whether it wouldn't 
have been better! 

Adele [sadly]. Oh! 

Marie. Mama! Think of what you're say- 
ing! Poor Adele! 

[A long pause.] 

Mme. Viot. Now, for all these reasons you are 
to have 5,000 francs' income, and not another sou 
— you ought to be thankful for that ! I ask only 
one thing: that you will leave the capital — 
150,000 francs — to Marie. You understand? 
To no one else ! I don't want that money to go 
out of the family. Enough has gone already. 

249 



FOUR PLAYS 



Marie. I don't want to take advantage of 
your generosity, dear. I ask only one thing of 
Heaven: to take me before it does you. I 
couldn't survive you! I couldn't! 

Mme. Viot. Then, you agree? 

Adele. Yes, Mama. 

Mme. Viot. No dividing the capital! No 
remembrances or presents? 

Adele. No, Mama. 

Mme. Viot. It's nine o'clock, I'm going home 
— I have to figure up my accounts. Oh, here are 
300 francs, you may pay me back out of your al- 
lowance. [Pointing to the notes she has given 
Adele.~\ Count them — I might be cheating 
you ! — To-morrow we'll begin our new life : come 
to lunch. You may have boiled eggs. Good- 
night. Don't be extravagant, now! 

Marie [/o Adele]. Good-night, dear. I'm 
going home : my husband's waiting for me. 

[Mme. Viot and Marie kiss Adele, and go out.] 

Adele. Five thousand francs ! How can I 
ever live on it? And they told me when I was 
married I should have a hundred thousand a year 
some day ! Five thousand ! Well, I must do my 
best! [A pause.] And he? What is he do- 
ing? What will become of him? Marie says 
her husband is waiting for her — I must stay here 
alone! — If I only heard something of hiin! — 
But if I must become used to the thought of doing 
without him, I must. I shall, in time. I've been 
pretty philosophical about it all lately. My life 
from now on will be lonely, I see that, but quiet 
and peaceful. I can at least take care of the lit- 
tle money I have. — That's something. What is 

250 



THE DUPE 



the matter with me to-night? I'm a coward! — 
Where can he be? What is he doing? 

[Enter Albert, looking aged and ill-kempt.'] 

Adele. You?! 

Albert. Yes, I. Don't call! You have 
nothing to be afraid of — 

Adele. If Mama knew — ! 

Albert. She's safe at home by now. I'll not 
stay long. 

Adele. Why have you come ? 

Albert. First to find out how you were: — 
you're not well, are you? 

Adele. No — but you can't stay here ! 

Albert. Stop, I have something important to 
say to you. I see my presence is disagreeable to 
you — so I'll stay only a moment. — You must 
have forgiven me by now? You know I was all 
out of humor that day ! I'm nrot usually like that ! 
You don't blame me, do you? Do you? 

Adele [after a pause]. How do I know? 

Albert. See — you don't really blame me. — 
[A pause.] 

Adele [looking at him]. What is the mat- 
ter? 

Albert. Things haven't gone well. I've had 
no luck. I'm not like every one. 

Adele. What do you mean? 

Albert. Ah, that's so: you're not to be en- 
vied, yourself ! 

Adele. Now, what have you come for? 

Albert. Well — may I sit down? 

Adele. Yes. 

Albert. After the separation I went on with 
my work at the office. Then — well, I was 

251 



FOUR PLAYS 



unfortunate — the cash-box — Oh, nothing much 
this time: 10,000 francs! I was found out and 
shown the door. They were decent enough to 
me — they didn't let it get about. Only I was 
out of a job. Then I lived from hand to mouth 
— translated, addressed envelopes for circulars. 
See that pamphlet on the table ? I wrote the ad- 
dress. Didn't you recognize my writing? — 
Then I — I've come to ask you to loan me a lit- 
tle — until I get on my feet again. Only till 
then! Your mother must give you an allowance? 
It would be a great help to me. If I don't have 
300 francs to-night, God only knows what'U hap- 
pen to me ! 

Adele. Three hundred francs ! That's a 
whole month's allowance. I don't keep things on 
the scale we used to ! 

Albert. Is that all you have? 

Adele. Not a sou more ! Mama gave me a 
capital of 150,000 francs! Figure it up! 

Albert. Then you can't let me have any- 
thing? 

Adele. If I did, how could I live? 

Albert. There's your mother! \_A pause.'] 

Adele. Tell me the truth: are those 300 
francs for yourself? 

A1.BEKT \_vivaciously']. Yes, yes. Don't imag- 
ine they're for her! I promise, I never see her! 

Adele. There's no need defending yourself so 
hotly! If it's true, why I — 

Albert. Well — 

Adele. Be frank, I'd rather you were. 

Albert [after a pause]. Well, yes, it is for 
her! 

252 



THE DUPE 



Adele. Ah ! 

Albert. Jealous? What difference can that 
make to you now? We're separated. But you 
needn't think I'm happy. What scenes, what 
wailing — pitched battles! [Sobbing.] This 
morning she left me ! Stay with me, Adele ! 
Don't send me away! You are good! It's a 
great relief to confide in you ! — Yes, she left me. 
I went there this morning at eleven, as I usually 
do, for lunch. I kissed her, and then she asked 
me the first thing whether I had the 300 francs 
I'd promised. I told her I hadn't. Then, with- 
out a word, she said: '' Get out, you old fool! " 
— She, she who told me I was the dearest being 
to her in the world! My God, Adele! I don't 
know what to do ! — 

Adele [after a pause]. There, there, don't 
go on like that ! Here's youi; money, take it ! 

Albert. You're an angel! You understand 
me ! 

Adele. Yes, I do understand you — better 
than you imagine. You love that woman the way 
I have loved you ! 

Albert. Thank you, thank you. You are 
good! If you knew what it cost me to ask you 
for money ! I was afraid of your mother. — Now 
let's talk about something else. — How are you ? 
Stomach still trouble you? You don't look very 
sick. Do you take good care of yourself? 

Adele. Yes — only you had better go now. 
If Mama were to know I had received you, and 
given you money, she would never forgive me. 

Albert. One minute more! It's so com- 
fortable here. You don't seem to realize it, but 

253 



FOUR PLAYS 



I'm mighty glad to see you again ! And are you 
glad—? 

Adele [with deep feeling']. I am! 

Albert [gaily]. Tell me, your mother — ? 

Adele. Yes, my mother? 

Albert. She's not nice to you, eh? 

Adele. She must lay the blame on some one 
for all the money she's lost. She blames me for 
having married you — she says I was too easily 
influenced by you. She was right, too. You 
knew how to get anything you liked from me — 
I'd have let you get every sou I had. But I be- 
lieve all women who loved as I did are like me. 
My mother is wrong in putting all the blame on 
me. I have suffered — ! 

Albert. But with all her money — and she 
has more than you think — she's allowed you only 
5,000 francs? The old — ! 

Adele [smiling] . Not a sou more. 

Albert. You might occasionally get a little 
more. 

Adele. Yes, but what a time I'd have ! 
Mama is positively ferocious. 

Albert. I'm really surprised she doesn't ask 
you to cut down expenses ! 

Adele. She does! 

Albert. No? 

Adele. Yes, she does. 

Albert. Well, I never! Such stinginess! 

Adele. They are a little careful! It's sim- 
ply their nature. 

Albert. Not much like me! 

Adele [smiling genially]. I should think not! 
254 



THE DUPE 



Albert. Makes you laugh, doesn't it? 

Adele. It all seems so long ago. 

Albert. Poor dear! Always so patient and 
sweet! — And /, I'm not really so terrible, after 
all. Luck's been against me, that's all. You 
know I loved you — infinitely more than I did the 
other. My pleasantest hours have been passed 
with you. But, then, you can't fight against 
your destiny, that has been my misfortune. Dear 
Adele. 

Adele [troubled]. Don't let's think of the 
past. We must be reasonable — you must go 
now — 

Albert. So soon? 

Adele. Yes, you must. No good will come 
of our staying together. 

Albert. I'll go, then, but not before I've 
kissed you and thanked you. I owe you at least 
that! Will you let me? 

Adele [allowing him to kiss her]. If you 
like. 

Albert. On the neck — as I used to, when I 
was in a good humor — remember? [He kisses 
he?'.] Nice, eh? 

Adele [overcome]. Stop, stop, Albert! 
[Recoiling.] Stop, now! 

Albert [looking at her, and understanding 
her feelings]. What? Can you really — ? 
You know — we might — see one another from 
time to time? Nothing would please me better! 

Adele [terrified]. No, no! You mustn't! 
What would — ? Then I — 

Albert. Yes ? 

255 



FOUR PLAYS 



Adele [in an undertone']. You want to take 
advantage of my weakness, get money from me 
— as before ! YouVe not losing sight of those 
150,000 francs! You've once driven me to mis- 
ery and despair, but you won't a second time ! 

Albert. That thought never entered my 
head ! 

Adele. Perhaps not to-day — but it would 
come to that ! 

Albert [approaching her]. You are not very 
kind!^ 

Adele. Go away, please ! 

Albert. I'm going, Pm going. — Good-by! 

Adele. Good-by! [Stopping him on the 
threshold.] Still, if you absolutely need to see 
me sometimes — for a good reason — ? 

Albert [ironically]. A good reason? 

Adele. Don't come here — Mama might see 
you, or the servants — 

Albert. Where, then? 

Adele. Write me a note and arrange a meet- 
ing-place. Perhaps Pll go — Pll think it over. 

Albert. Good ! But where can I meet you ? 

Adele. I don't know — it makes no differ- 
ence. 

Albert. The devil! Out of the question at 
my place. It's a tiny hole in the Batignolles dis- 
trict. No ! I shouldn't allow my wife to be 
humiliated there ! Perhaps — I've been thinking 
of setting up a ground-floor apartment. But I'm 
not very sure. I must decide — might see you 
then ! ? Oh, I insist on paying all the rent ! 
Good, that's it, then ! As soon as I can have you 
there, I'll write. You'll not have to wait long! 

256 



THE DUPE 



But you will come, won't you? Promise! Good 
See you soon, then! \^He goes out.~\ 

Adele [after a pause]. But will he write? 



[Curtain.] 



END OF THE PLAY 



257 



fe 



1 



A SELECTED LIST 

OF 

DRAMATIC 
LITERATURE 





PUBLISHED BY 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 

CINCINNATI 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



The Antigone of Sophocles 

By PROF. JOSEPH EDWARD HARRY 



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44 



European Dramatists 



By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON 

Author of "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



At Last 

You May Understand 

Cjr. Jj, O. 

Perhaps once in a generation a figure of commanding 
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George Bernard Shaw 

HIS LIFE AND WORKS 

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A Few Critical Reviews of 

George Bernard Shaw 

His Life and Works 
A Critical Biography (Authorized) 
By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., Ph.D. 
The Dial: 

"In over five hundred pages, with an energy and 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



Short Plays 

By MARY MAC MILLAN 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



Lucky Pehr 

By AUGUST STRINDBERG 

Authorized Translation by Velma Siuanston Honvard. 

An allegorical drama in five acts. Compared favorably 

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A popular drama. * * * There is no doubt about 
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In charm of fancy and grace of imagery the story may 
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Raster 



(A Play in Three Acts) 
AND STORIES BY AUGUST STRINDBERG 

Authorized translation by Velma S^vanston Hoivard. 
In this ivork the author reveals a broad tolerance, a rare 
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One play from his (Strindberg's) third, or sym- 
bolistic period stands almost alone. This is "Easter." 
There is a sweet, sane, life-giving spirit about it. 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



On the Seaboard 

By AUGUST STRINDBERG 

The Author's greatest psychological novel. Author- 
ized Translation hn Elizabeth Clarke W estergren. 
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"It requires a book such as 'On the Seaboard' to 
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"His delineations are photographical exactness with- 
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his personality." 
Indianapolis News: 

"The story is wonderfully built and conceived and 
holds the interest tight." 
American R^eview of Reviews: 

"This version is characterized by the fortunate use 
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STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 

The Hamlet Problem and Its Solution 

By EMERSON VENABLE 

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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



HOW TO WRITE 

Moving Picture Plays 

By W. L. GORDON 

CONTENTS 

What is a motion picture ? How are moving pictures 
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Prices paid for plays. Kind of plays to write. Kind 
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ration of manuscript. The plot and how to obtain it. 
Title of play. Synopsis. Cast of characters. Scenario. 
Leaders of Sub-Titles. Letters, Clippings, etc. What 
constitutes a scene. Continuity of scenes. Stage settings 
and properties. Entrance and exit of characters. Cli- 
max. Limitations of camera. Length of play. Review. 
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